


Vom Himmel Hoch

by TheAstronomyMod



Category: Kraftwerk - Fandom, Krautrock (music)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 67
Words: 351,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4611360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAstronomyMod/pseuds/TheAstronomyMod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jan DeLay, a young English art student with an intense interest in early computing, arrives in Düsseldorf in 1970 for a year's study abroad. A chance meeting in the computer lab of her school introduces her to the exciting new experimental electronic band known as Power Station. Quickly, Jan and her friends are drawn into the vibrant cultural scene of Kosmische music, art, architecture and design swirling around the Düsseldorf Kunstakademie, the Robert Schumann Conservatory, and Joseph Beuys' Creamcheese Club in the early 70s. Many of these people would go on to change the world, but this is their (highly imagined) adventures as art students.</p><p>Features guest appearances from not just Kraftwerk, but NEU!, Cluster, Can and many other "Krautrock" bands of the period.</p><p>Note: I have put a non-con warning on this because of some highly dubious dub-con that appears in the story, because sexual mores which were common in the 70s and 80s have very much changed. The bulk of this story is not sexual, it is focused mostly on characters and relationships, musical and romantic. I will put warnings on individual chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. La Düsseldorf

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction, though obviously it has been heavily influenced by several biographies and autobiographies of Kraftwerk, and contains numerous references to actual people. None of them are intended to be representative. It is a homage to music, art and architecture I genuinely love, and no offence is intended.
> 
> A note on the text: writing a story, in English, purported to be told by a group of people, none of whom are native English speakers, has been a challenge. (Especially given that I am a native speaker of English, and the narrator is not.) Therefore, consider that all of the grammatical and spelling errors in actual *dialogue* are intentional.
> 
> <<Speech enclosed in brackets should always be read as being spoken in German>>
> 
> \--Speech enclosed in dashes should always be read as spoken as Dutch (or occasionally mutually intelligible snatches of Afrikaans)--
> 
> "Speech in double quotes should always be read as spoken in English."
> 
> Speech in single quotes, or italics should be interpreted as a word foreign to the language being spoken, e.g. lyrics quotes in English in the course of an otherwise German conversation.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I have never actually even been to Düsseldorf. Googlemaps has been helpful, but my knowledge of the city is limited, and I will of course make schoolgirl errors. I am also woefully ignorant of the German educational system (I am British, but I went to school in the States) so I apologise in advance for any errors, as I have written from my own experiences and expectations of art school. I am certain that this will read as patently ridiculous to anyone from German, but as I write in English, I expect most of my readers will be from the US or the UK.

The first thing I did when I got to Düsseldorf was cut my hair. It wasn't intentional - well, then again maybe it was. A new decade, a new beginning, a symbolic act, removing all the weight of that hippie shit, slamming a door on the 60s and indeed my childhood years. It was my way of declaring "It's 1970, I'm 18, and I'm alone in a German city where I don't know a soul."

But no. Start again. To be honest, that wasn't the real reason why I cut my hair.

Before I left for Germany, I had done some research, casting about for a computer mainframe I could use for my project, as I knew that the Kunstakademie would have nothing suitable. After some digging, and pulling in of favours, I eventually located a large computer with respectable processing power in the research department of the nearby Engineering School. I wrote - well, really, I had my father write, as his name still carried a lot of weight with anyone familiar with the Ferranti Computing Company - and asked the usual questions about processing power, storage, language capabilities, and what format I would have to submit my code, punchcards, type or teletype.

I had it almost all sorted, and had obtained permission to run some of my code after hours and during spare time, when, with typical German bureaucracy, it was pointed out that I could not use the computer unless I was a student. But I _am_ a student, I insisted, during a very expensive long-distance phone call, or, rather, I will be a foreign exchange student, for a year, at the Düsseldorf Kunstakademie. No came the answer; you must be enrolled as a student of the Engineering School, and for that you need to provide evidence of the Abitur or comparable international certifications. I went that afternoon and mailed them copies of all 13 of my A-levels and asked if that would be sufficient. In view of the particularly high scores I had achieved in Maths and Physics, they were prepared to admit me, came the reply by post. Part-time will be acceptable, one class a semester will be sufficient, and then they had the gall to sign me up for an almost insultingly basic "fundamentals of machine code" class.

Honestly, I could have taught the class. I had been bug-checking my father's code at the age of 13, on the odd weekend home from boarding school. But rules were rules, and if the Germans exceeded at anything, it was rules and being sticklers for them, so I cycled over to the campus in a great hurry, got diverted in completely the wrong direction by some wag who could not believe some _female_ was looking for the Engineering School, and arrived at my first class over six minutes later. Yes. Six. Germans are never late. Engineering students are never late. To be six minutes late for a class at a German School of Engineering was such an exceptional breach of etiquette that the door had already been closed and locked, and the lecture begun, and there I was tapping at the window trying to gain admission.

The professor stared at me as if at an apparition, before finally moving over to unlock the door. >>No, I'm sorry, Fraulein, we did not order refreshments for this lecture.<< A titter went round the room.

>>I'm not the tea lady, I'm a student<< I insisted, red-faced and flustered, knowing how atrocious my accent must have sounded, even as the room burst from titters into barely contained laughter.

>>No, no, there is some mistake, we have our full complement of engineering and architecture students wishing to learn programming basics... No, wait. There is still an Englisher to come, but as we all know, the English are late for everything, are they not.<< The students, inspired by their teacher's insolence, were laughing openly now.

Now my face was burning red as I shook my hair back and fixed him with an unrepentant glare. >>I am that Englisher, and I would not have been late, had one of your colleagues not thought it funny to direct me to the dining hall instead of the computer lab. I'm Jan DeLay<<

>>Jan?<< asked the professor, pronouncing my name in the European way, "Yon". >>But you are a female... How is this possible? The programming notes... The code...<<

>>Jan is a girls' name in England<< I muttered, pronouncing it correctly, as short for Janette, an argument I had been having with my mother's side of the family since I was old enough to talk.

>>Very well. _Yon_ << The professor looked about the room, somewhat deflated, and continued to pronounce my name in error, almost as if to spite me. Nineteen pairs of male eyes stared back at me, all of them some variant of astonished, outraged or deeply amused. 

Come on you _Junge_ , you cannot seriously be astonished by the sight of a female engineering student in the year nineteen hundred and seventy, I thought to myself as they gaped at me. The sixties are over! Women's lib has arrived with new ideas for a new decade. Get with it, I wanted to shout at them, but my German did not quite stretch quite far enough to admonish them.

He gestured towards a spare desk at the front. >>Sit here, in front of Hütter.<<

The front row? He had _got_ to be joking. But, feeling very conscious of those nineteen pairs of eyes upon me, I flung myself into the desk, feeling intensely humiliated. I must have looked a sight, my hair flying out everywhere, composition books and scattered bits of programming code and graph paper traced with elaborate designs spilling from my voluminous brocade carpet bag.

And then, to make matters worse, as the professor turned back to the chalkboard and started to diagram out the relationship between binary, machine code, compilers and programming language, I became aware that someone was _touching_ my hair.

I whirled about to stare down Hütter, who had the audacity to have taken a long, silvery lock into his hands. >>No! Touching! Of me!<< I snapped, abandoning all pretence at German grammar.

Hütter smiled in a sort of smarmy way, raising one eyebrow above his round, horn-rimmed glasses. I hated him on sight: plump, well-fed son of the German bourgeoisie, with his trying-so-hard-to-be-trendy leather jacket and his edge-of-fashionable long hair, greasy, lank, in that indiscriminate colour somewhere between dark blond and light brown. I hated him even before he spoke, in a clipped, precise voice as he pushed my escaping strands of hair back into the hood of my coat. >>So, we have a veritable Rhinemaiden spilling her bountiful locks all over my textbooks. What am I supposed to do to get them off my desk?<<

I seized my hair back as if iI had been burned, and twisted it into a loose chignon on the back of my neck, out of reach of mischief from impertinent engineering or architecture students. And when I got back to my dorm room, I demanded of my roommate Myrthe if she knew anywhere I could get my bloody hair cut off.

She weighed it with the practised hand of the fashion student she was. --Is it natural, the colour?--

I just about resisted the urge to snap back, _of course it's bloody natural_ , though my nerves had been frayed by an hour and a half of the meddlesome whispered questions and teasing from the young computing student behind me. --Ja. It's from the Dutch side of the family, we are all straw blonde.--

\--I know a place you could probably sell it, make good money.--

And so Myrthe spoke to a friend, who spoke to another friend, who took me to an odd little wigmaker down a side street, who exclaimed heartily over the waist-length silver-white hair that had become almost my calling card in London, then paid me a small fortune to part with it. And there I was, in Germany, a foreign country, staring at the close-cropped stranger in the mirror thinking, well, if Twiggy could get away with it with some style and some dramatic make-up, well, so could I.

\--Very decadent, very Weimar-- observed Myrthe as we walked home.

\--I look like a boy!-- I touched the stubble on the back of my neck as I admired my reflection in a shop window, though the fashionable male mannequins behind had hair longer than mine. --Maybe I should dress like a boy, show those stupid engineering boys that I'm more man than all of them put together?--

Myrthe laughed --You do look so androgynous with your big eyes and no hair. You will have to dress more feminine now, if you want to catch the eyes of any of the men in our design class.--

\--And why would I want to do a thing like that?-- I scoffed, stopping to look in the window of a second hand shop that sold ridiculously old fashioned clothes very cheaply. It was a favourite with all the art students, Myrthe had told me.

>>You are stunning beauty. I must paint you! Come to my studio, number 9 on the Berger Allee. We make beautiful art together, yes?<< she intoned, in note-perfect impression of the intense and passionate but slightly lecherous graduate student who had been tutoring our design class.

>>Ah, Emil, but I bet you say that to all the girls!<< I squeaked, and pretended to be flustered, twirling hair that was no longer there, before both of us collapsed into laughter. But suddenly something in the shop window caught my eye. --Look! Isn't it beautiful?-- A 1930s gown with a swooping neckline and a bare back, in shimmering shades of deep sea blue. We went in to look closer. --Oh, what a shame. It's torn up the side.--

\--Don't worry. Try it on, I can fix that in a moment. Though I'm sure we can ask for a discount, because of it.--

I bought the gown, a rare extravagance, but old-fashioned clothes were truly my weakness. I had never really liked the messy, informal hippie clothes of my friends. I preferred glamourous, tailored styling from the 20s and 30s. And as an added bonus, since these types of clothes were so unfashionable in the let-it-all-hang-out modern era, they were particularly economical, as well as stylish.

We stopped again, and I bought a large bottle of vodka, to keep in reserve in our dorm room, then I resolved to put the rest of my hair-money away into savings with my student grant. But not of course, before Myrthe insisted on stopping for coffee and plum-cake at the cafe near the Kunstakademie. An unnecessary indulgence I could ill afford, but Myrthe insisted, and even said she would pay. Of course I knew the reason why she wanted to go so badly - I would sit and drink coffee, and she would make eyes at all the painting students as they filed in and out, smoking cigarettes, inhaling black coffee and pushing their long hair out of their serious faces like a herd of nervous horses. To see and be seen, that was what the coffeehouses of Düsseldorf were best for, and Myrthe, with her flamboyant clothes and her dramatic face, excelled at both seeing and being seen!

\--Oh look, there he is-- gushed Myrthe, spotting the current object of her obsession, a shy young painter, who was chatting in the corner with our design tutor. --No, no, don't wave!-- she hissed, grabbing my hand and pulling it down. I hadn't realised I wasn't allowed to attract people's attention, but Emil and the hairy young painter were already heading over. --Oh my god.-- She adjusted her hair in the mirrored wall and put on what she hoped was a mysterious smile.

>>Good afternoon, ladies. Are you studying hard? No you are not, I see you, you are eating plum-cake and checking out all the men<< teased Emil, who was tall and thin, and sort of rugged looking, like a long-haired Marcello Mastroianni. I liked Emil, despite his rakish attitude, because he was younger and hipper than most of our teachers, and he liked to expound on design using Jimi Hendrix album covers and pages from the German Highway Code as examples of 'visual semiotics'.

Myrthe didn't say anything, but smirked and silently made eyes at her young man, who, to be fair, was eyeing her inquisitively back from under a huge mane of reddish-brown hair. So it was left to me to talk, and I blurted out the first thing that sprang into my mind, from the previous afternoon's design class. >>We are not checking out the men. We are watching the rich, passing stream of human life, to gain ideas for our designs, as one of our tutors suggested we should.<<

Emil laughed and pointed at me. >>Right, Jan, you just won a First. But Myrthe, you fail, for inattentiveness.<< But then he noticed the subtle flirtation going on under his nose. >>Ah. This is Michael. He failed my class last year. See, I don't hold my students' failings against them. We can still be friends. Cigarette, anyone?<<

Myrthe rolled her eyes, and dug in her handbag for two cigarettes, but it was a small price to pay for the introduction to her shy painting student. I could see the smile of triumph in her eyes as Michael stumbled forward with a light for her.

And to think, I had actually been disappointed when I'd first been assigned Myrthe as a roommate. All of the foreign students lodged together on the ground floor of our dormitory, which I had thought was outrageous! How on earth was our German ever supposed to improve if we never mixed with any native speakers in our homes? And what an odd lot we were, from all different studies and all different disciplines, jumbled all together, design students, art students, couture students, and one computer engineer. And yet, somehow, we worked, as we all commiserated on the foibles of German culture and German bureaucracy; and information filtered through about where to get your visa stamped or where to buy groceries from our home countries.

Our very first day of school, as I had watched Myrthe unpacking and hanging out the brightly coloured textiles she worked with, I was intrigued. I was used to the hippies of London, with their slovenly clothes, but Myrthe dressed like a fashion plate, all bright Ossie Clarke colours and bold tailored lines. And when she artfully scattered some fashionable Dutch design magazines about her working desk, my heart leapt. --You speak Dutch? That must have been why they put us together!--

Myrthe burst out laughing. --I do. But where on earth is your accent from?--

I winced. Sometimes I just lied and told people I was from some obscure part of Flanders, but I bit my tongue, announced --Cape Town-- and waited for the inevitable lecture on how terrible the South African political situation was.

\--Oh, of course. My brother lives in Bloemfontein. He says once you get used to the accent, it's perfectly easy to understand one another.--

\--Slow down, slow down-- I laughed. --I'm a bit out of practice, I've been living with my father in England for the past few years.--

\--We'll get you right back up to speed. What a relief! I thought I was going to have to spend another year speaking German all the time. What an ugly language!--

And we fell instantly to talking, about how a Dutch girl ended up studying textile design in Düsseldorf, and how an English girl ended up being born in South Africa, until we ended up lying back, smoking, and blowing our cigarette fumes out the open windows.

\--My father went to Cape Town in 1951 to install the very first computer on the African continent. He fell in love with the secretary assigned to operate his punchcards, and then nine months later, there was me. I grew up half in Manchester and half on the Veldt. It was quite a contrast.-- I explained.

\--I was born and grew up in Delft-- Myrthe told me in reply. --Yes, like the famous china. Everyone tells me I have eyes that precise colour blue. But in Delft, everything is blue and white, white and blue, so fussy, so chintzy, everything so old, nothing ever changes. I like my designs bold, simple, startling. I hated Delft and wanted to get out!--

\--I nearly went on the University Exchange programme to Delft-- I confessed. --Well, really I wanted to go to Paris, but after the riots of '68, my father thought it wasn't safe. But I looked at Delft and I just thought... there wasn't even a computer in the entire city!--

\--And there won't ever be!-- Myrthe practically shouted. --They are living in the past! Do you know, even the Nieuwe Kerk in Delft, it is from the 15th Century! That's what they think of as new! You would have hated it!--

I got up and walked to the window to stub my cigarette out., looking out into the glittering night --No, I like Düsseldorf. It's modern, and clean and beautiful. The industry, the excitement... it feels like the Future, it feels like the 70s, where London is still stuck in the 60s. I think this was the right place for me to come.--

After only the first week, I had already concluded that art school in Germany was very different from London. To be honest, art school in London had been quite difficult for me. I came from a very strict boarding school, and I was used to discipline and order, which aligned well with my father's ideals about self-discipline and self-control. 

At St Martin's School of Art and Design, however, no one ever worked! No one ever seemed to go to classes on time or seemed to turn in any assignments. People would come and go to classrooms at whatever times they chose, a casualness I found most alarming. And all they ever did was talk! Talk, talk, talk, about theory, about politics, about whether this or that piece of work aligned correctly with the most recent theories out of Paris or New York or Timbuktu. I found this very distressing, when all I wanted to do was sit down and get on with my projects. One of my teachers even took me aside and asked me if everything was OK at home. But why do you ask, I wanted to know. Because you are the first student in four years who has attended every lecture and every class, and you run the risk of getting straight A's! It was most peculiar.

But in Germany, my god, how art students _worked_. The ideas of Walter Gropius were still very current, and students were expected to _make_ things, to design things, to work with our hands as well as our brains and motor-mouths. The first day of Textile Design we crowded round as our professor showed us the workings of screen printing and block printing, and yes, my heart fluttered with excitement when she told me that upstairs on the top floor, they had machine looms that we would be designing for!

>>A Jacquard?<< I asked breathlessly.

>>Oh yes, we have both the modern type and some very old looms for the History of Textile class you will take next semester.<<

I explained carefully in broken German, the purpose of my research, how I wished to show the origins of computer programming and punchcards in the Jacquard Looms of the early Industrial Revolution. (I left out the more complicated bit, about wishing to take the exchange further the other way, to teach computers to paint and design and make art, because art professors never seemed to understand my visions, as if they were frightened by the idea of computers!)

>>Yes, we have some very early Jacquard patterns in the collections of the Kunstmuseum. I will see if I can get them out for you.<< Myrthe and I stayed a little late after class, and she dug me out an old cardboard box filled with scraps and ribbons of delicate, yellowing old card. <Here, take these home and see what you can make of them.<<

>>You are just going to let me take them<< I asked, shocked by what seemed to be a complete lack of suspicion.

>>These are pieces that were badly damaged in a fire during the war, so we let the students play with them. You English destroyed them, so you English can see if you can put them back together.<< For a few moments, I bristled, wondering if my year abroad was to be nothing but jibes about my nationality and the enmity between our countries, but then I noted her broad grin and realised a little late that she was joking, having a little laugh at my expense. There was no maliciousness as she extended the box of card towards me, so I took it, and my trepidation was soon replaced with joy as I realised what wonders it contained. Both the punchcards, and the scraps of lace that they produced from the looms, but all jumbled up together, like a giant puzzle of translation!

So it seemed I had been in Düsseldorf less than a week, and already found my calling.


	2. Ralf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jan arrives at the computer lab of the Engineering and Architecture School, she has a run-in with the annoying young student named Hütter, who could not keep his hands to himself. But she quickly shows him who has the superior programming skills.

Myrthe made fun of my enthusiasm over the Jacquard cards, but I was just too happy to take much notice of her friendly ribbing as we carried the box back across the campus. A couple of her friendly painting students appeared, and offered to carry it for me, but I could tell they were more interested in Myrthe than my project.

>>Are you girls going to the Creamcheese club to see Can tonight?<< the one called Michael asked her entreatingly.

>>Very crazy, very cool band from Köln. We are lucky to have them come up and play here<< said the other, in that sort of supercilious tone of voice that men always tried to talk to me about music in.

Myrthe looked at me sideways. >>What do you think, Jan?<<

I shook my head briskly. Although it was enticing, as I had heard much gossip of this exciting space where art students, music composers from the conservatory and wild, radical thinkers all gathered to drink and dance and sometimes even consume mind-altering chemicals in an environment of complete aesthetic and social freedom, I had other plans. >>This evening is my first chance to utilise the Mainframe at the Engineering School, so I must demur this charming invitation.<< I said, praying that I had not mangled the grammar too badly.

>>But you are coming on Saturday, yes?<< the supercilious painter demanded, thrusting a cheaply printed flyer into my hands. I looked at it distastefully, as I was unimpressed by the image, of a young naked woman sitting astride a traffic cone - wouldn't that hurt, terribly? - and passed it over to Myrthe, who sniggered loudly. >>Emil's friends are playing. They're very good, they've been on the radio and the television and everything.<<

>>Maybe<< Myrthe said, though she did not hand the flyer back, she folded it up and put it in her elegant little handbag.

The taller painter moved in closer, and lowered his voice. >>Klaus is playing with them, if you want to... ' _take a trip_ ' as they say.<< He said it in English with a very deliberate movement of his eyebrows.

>>Yes, we will be there<< Myrthe assured them, then took a firm grip on my arm and escorted me away.

\--What?-- I said. --Why did you suddenly agree? Who is Klaus? And where are we going with him?--

\--Haven't you done it yet?-- she demanded.

\--Done what?-- My mind reeled. Was she asking me about sex? The Europeans were very forward, I knew, compared with us British, but that was an issue we had discussed only delicately. Who we _wished_ to make love with we mentioned, yes; but never who we _had_. My experience in the matter was very limited, but I did not want Myrthe to know that. I was quite sure that she would tell the painters, and then oh, how they would laugh at me. Especially Emil, with that intense, penetrating stare he used on all the girls.

\--LSD!-- Myrthe hissed. --It is shockingly good for your creativity. I think it should be mandatory for every art student on earth.--

\--You've taken it?-- I asked, more surprised than shocked. I knew people at St Martin's who were rumoured to have indulged, in the days when it was still legal, and given out in a small shopfront in Soho. But they were all the wildest and most terrifying of the political theorists, and their disordered thoughts and crazy sentiments frightened me slightly.

Myrthe laughed, almost disdainful. --What, have you heard that it drives people mad, and here I am, far too normal and sane to have been corrupted?--

\--No, but I've heard that psychiatrists use it to experiment on people.-- Indeed, my father had been approached by one of his very strange university friends for just such an experiment when I was still a teenager, and he had, quite sensibly, demurred. He had warned me to leave the stuff alone, that it changed people, often permanently. Physicists he knew who had taken it were never quite the same afterwards, they were transformed, somehow altered. As a teenager, I was afraid of being altered. But now, in Germany, excited by how different and strange and wonderful the people, the culture, the Kunstakademie were, perhaps I wanted to be transformed?

\--On Saturday, we will find Klaus. You must try it.-- Myrthe insisted, as casually as if she was telling me to try a new hairdresser or a new style of shoes.

We carried the box up to our dorm room, and I started to pick through it, fascinated by the cards, all linked together in fragments of chains, in twos or threes, where the connecting link had been burned away. I was starting to sort them into piles by the different kinds of card stock and types of holes when I glanced up at the time and gasped. I had to be quick, or I would miss my allotted slot on the Mainframe! Sweeping up the nearest pile of cards to work on while my code was compiling, I pushed them into my carpet bag with my coding notebooks, and rushed out to cycle over to the Engineering School.

The caretaker let me in only after he checked my ID twice, then a graduate student showed me the server room and set me up with a login for the terminal for inputting code. Oh yes, I was very familiar with this set-up, I had used teletypes before, and I would be fine operating it by myself. Yes, if I needed help I knew which was his cubicle door to knock at, but no, thank you, I would prefer to be left alone to code in peace, and no, I did not want to drop by for coffee or for cake, thank you very much.

>>Feel free to use the gramophone<< the graduate student told me, lingering by the door as if making excuses to stay. >>The other undergraduate student brought it in because he likes to listen to Schubert as he codes.<<

I thanked him politely, but told him I preferred to work in silence. I loved music, but it affected me far too deeply, emotionally, to listen to while I worked. I did, indeed, adore Schubert, but I knew the music would utterly captivate me and rush away with my mind, just when I needed to stay focused on the Mainframe's delicate equipment. I got out my notebooks and set them up the way I liked, then sat down at the Datapoint terminal, feeling myself soon slipping back into the rhythm of programming. Type. Submit. Compile. Send to print-out, then check the errors. Re-type. Re-compile. Sometimes I missed the crisp paper-sound chatter of the old-fashioned TTY I had learned on, and the amusing scroll of punched out ribbon. And to be fair, sometimes the harsh green light of the VDU hurt my eyes a little. But coding and compiling was a very soothing pattern, and while I waited for the batches to process, I took out the Jacquard cards and laid them out along the smooth surface of the computer's body to examine the sequence.

I was so lost in concentration that the sudden music took me completely by surprise, as Schubert exploded into life, at deafening volume, accompanied by jaunty whistling. I nearly jumped out of my seat, but the other person seemed just as surprised to see me.

>>Oh, I'm so sorry, Sir, I didn't know you were here<< stuttered a young man's voice, followed by hasty footsteps and an attempt to turn the music down. >>I thought I'd have the computer room to myself. I normally do.<<

I whirled in my chair to face him, as irritated at having my concentration broken as being addressed by the wrong sex. >>My time on the mainframe should have been arranged! Before I even arrived! I did the request! Deliberate! _My_ night... << My German sputtered out of my command as the figure turned around, revealing itself to be the irritating and impertinent young man who sat behind me in class.

>>Ah! The Englisher<< Hütter laughed, then something caught his eye, and he moved towards the Jacquard cards. >>My god, what are these punchcards? I didn't know it was still the middle ages in England...<<

>>No! Touching! Forbidden!<< I snapped, losing all sense of grammar for the second time in two days, as I slapped his hands away from the sequence I did not want to lose.

He smirked, deeply amused, and pushed his large, fingerprint-streaked spectacles up his annoying little button nose. "It is OK if your German is not so good. I speak perfect English, you know," he informed me, in an accent as thick as the wavy light brown hair curling down his neck. I glared at him in silence and hovered protectively over my work. "No, but really. Why are you using the punchcards still? In Germany, we use the magnetic tape to store programmes." With a flourish, he produced a reel of very expensive high-quality tape from beneath his arm and waved it towards me like a trophy. It felt like a deliberate gesture of domination - there was no way I could afford brand new tape on my student grant, so I still bought punchcards in foot-high stacks and carried around all my precious code ideas scribbled down in stacks of notebooks.

Still, I thought his attitude stank, so I decided to give it straight back to him. "No, in England, we are so backwards that we still use Mercury Delay Lines as memory storage devices."

That, clearly, piqued his interest, as he thrust his aggressive cleft chin forward to study me. "How have you, _little girl_ , heard of Mercury Delay Line Memory?"

I just stared at him as if he were a complete idiot. If he had encountered a man sitting at the input terminal of a mainframe computer, would he have assumed that that man was completely ignorant of the history of the machine upon which he worked? The tension grew in the room as I refused to answer, and I could see him squirming, until abruptly the machine beeped to alert me that the compile had finished running. I turned to peer into the monitor, as Hütter peered over my shoulder, too fast for me to block him out.

"Wow," he said, very loudly.

I barely glanced at him as I started to feed in the next line of code. "Do you even know what it means?"

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then shrugged, eyeing me with a new respect. It was clear he understood no more than a few commands. Finally, he conceded not his ignorance, but my skill. "It is very advanced," he offered. "What language is this?"

"COBOL," I shrugged.

"I believe I recognise a few of the commands from FORTRAN..."

I merely snorted. "FORTRAN is so limiting. You end up with ugly spaghetti code all over the place. Structured programming is the future; COBOL is best for that."

I could see he did not understand what I had just said any more than he understood my code, but he flicked his hair out of his eyes and tried to bluff his way through. "Where did you learn how to program? And why are you in the beginner's class, if you can write code like this?"

I turned back to him, and once again, pushed his prying fingers away from my cards. "My father is Peter DeLay." Yes, I could see that name rang a bell with him. "If you are interested in computing, you might have heard of him? He invented Mercury Delay Memory, or at least, pioneered the practice of transferring its utilisation from radar to computing. His baby was the Ferranti Mark 1. The first commercially available computer in the world. He invented its working memory. So you might say, in a manner of speaking, I learned computer programming on my father's knee."

Hütter at least had the decency to blush. "I am... a great admirer of your father's work. It is... it is an honour to meet you, Yon DeLay."

I grit my teeth at the mangled pronunciation of my name. "Jan," I corrected.

He made another valiant attempt at the English. "Chan."

I rolled my eyes and finished my line of code, then sent the whole thing to print before the irritating young student could distract me any further. When I got up to retrieve the piles of green and white print-out collecting on the floor by the printer, the annoying young man took my seat, peering through his dirty glasses at my code. >>Move, Hütter<< I barked at him.

"Please," he said obsequiously as he rose, bowing slightly as he moved to let me sit. "Call me Ralf."

"Move, Raffe," I repeated.

"No, no. Is pronounced _Rhaahlf_ ," he enunciated carefully, with a long A and a guttural German R.

"In my country, it's pronounced Raffe. If I have to be Yon or Chan or whatever you call me, then you shall be Raffe," I countered.

For a moment, he stared at me, completely shocked, but then his thin lips twisted up in a smile, and he started to laugh, rather forced. "Ah, I see. You are having a little joke with me." His accent was so heavy it sounded like _choke_.

"If you do not get your little nose out of my code, I will most certainly choke you," I warned him, though I tried to pretty up my threat with a smile.

"You are a very funny girl," he chuckled, as if he didn't seem to realise that I wasn't joking in the slightest. "But please. Explain to me this string man-ARGE-ment see-QUENCE you utilise. See, here, you set this vahr-EYE-able..."

I couldn't help myself; I did actually let out a squeak of laughter, though I did my best to cover it with my hand, and pretend that I was sneezing or coughing, or both. I was, I had to admit, impressed that he had grasped that much of my code, but his pronunciation was simply ludicrous. And then I grasped the nature of his problem. He was one of those precocious children who had learned English from reading books, and spouted the vocabulary verbatim as he'd imagined it, but had simply never heard the words spoken aloud.

But when I corrected him by repeating the words properly, ever so gently, in my explanation, he chewed on his lip, and I could see him start to sulk like an admonished puppy, pulling away from me with a hurt expression. How fragile is the male ego! So I decided to throw him a bone of kindness. "Oh, and my cards that you were so interested in. They're not computer punchcards, they're Jacquard patterns," I told him. He looked at me blankly, still sulking, then shrugged to cover his ignorance. "Old fashioned instructions for looms, the precursor to programming, from the 18th and 19th Century."

I saw the light of interest suddenly spark again in his eyes, his sulk forgotten as he reached for them. "Really? Do you mind if I...?"

"I mind!" I insisted, slapping his grabby hands away again. "They are old, and very fragile... and I have just spent the past hour getting them into order." Selecting one from the unsorted pile, I picked it up gently and handed it to him.

"What do they do? How do they work?" he asked, turning the artefact over and over in his fingers. He had long, slender hands, just like a girl. The kind of hands that would be very nimble at weaving.

"With weaving, there are two threads of two different colours. Say you are weaving a cloth with a pattern of red and black. Whichever one is to the front, that is the colour that shows, and the other colour is to the back. So each of these little holes, it corresponds to a string in the loom, and it resets the loom's pattern. Every time there is a hole, it sets red to face up, every time there is a solid bit of card, it sets black up..."

"So it is just like binary." Ralf's quick mind was already racing ahead as his fingertip traced the sequence of cards down the top of the computer.

"Precisely. And the same set of cards, looped over and over, produces a regular pattern in the cloth."

He held it up and squinted at it against the light. "It looks a little bit like paisley."

"It probably is paisley," I agreed, remembering a swirling pattern in the ribbons at the bottom of the box. "In my algorithm, the variable is doing the same thing. I set a pattern, and the algorithm loops through all of the permutations, before cycling back to repeat again. It is weaving, but generating the patterns within the computer's memory, instead of cotton or wool."

Beside me, I could almost feel Ralf quivering with excitement. "So you are allowing a computer algorithm to design your textile. The computer is weaving!" 

"Something like that. You see, at the moment, it is all so primitive, no colours, poor resolution. But in the future, if we refine the algorithms, and if the colour resolution of computers catches up to television, we will be painting, drawing, sketching... maybe perhaps even making films, all with computers."

"May I see?" he asked, quietly, almost solemnly, his voice very close in my ear. I became suddenly aware of just how near he was, the smell of his leather jacket, his unwashed hair. His long, square face, with the curve of his odd, slightly feminine jaw, hovered only a few inches from my own as he peered at my monitor. Up close, I could see that his skin was very pale, and had the distinctly unhealthy tone of a man who never went out of doors, and though his face looked flabby, his legs were very thin, like two pins inside his unfashionable drainpipe jeans. I didn't like anyone that close to me, let alone some irritating young man from the Engineering school, so I pulled away from him sharply.

"No," I said abruptly, and quickly cleared the screen, glancing up at the clock. It was already quarter past, and I was supposed to have surrendered the computer to the next student at nine. I was now eating into Ralf's processing time. I didn't like to appear secretive, but in ten minutes I had explained more to Ralf about my project than I had to anyone outside my family, and I felt terribly exposed. "So what are _you_ working on?" I asked, more out of politeness and interest, as I cleared away my things and swept them all into my voluminous carpet bag.

"Oh, I could not possibly tell you. Is great secret," announced Ralf, sweeping his greasy forelock out of his forehead with a defiant gesture. For a few moments, I just stared at him, completely taken aback at his rudeness, until his mouth twitched, and a wide smile spread across his irritating face. "Ha ha, maybe I am having a little joke with you?"

"Well, don't tell me, then. I don't care," I told him casually, as I shouldered my bag and pushed off towards the door. He really was the most irritating creature I had yet to meet in Germany.

But after a burst of laughing at me, Ralf paused, then called after me. "You know, I have a friend who wants to do something very similar. You know how some people compose with the piano, some people compose with the flute, some people with the violin? Like you want to paint with computer, my friend Flori, he says that some day, musicians will compose on the computer as if it was a whole orchestra. So this is what I am working on. Well, my friend and I."

For a moment, our eyes locked, and I felt suddenly very curious about this odd young man who coded to Schubert. But as his mouth opened in a stupid grin, I remembered how impolitely he had touched my hair the previous day, and gave a tiny shrug before heading off into the night.


	3. The Creamcheese Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to prove to her friends at art school that she is not just a swot, she accompanies them to a gig at Joseph Beuys' infamous nightclub, the Creamcheese Club. There, she takes acid for the first time, and while on the most Kosmische trip, comes face to face with the Piper At The Gates Of Dawn himself.

I did my best to avoid Hütter in the class the next day, but he was most persistent in trying to engage me in whispered conversation when the professor's back was turned. When I would not respond, choosing instead to work on the simple logical problems the professor set us, he pushed a scrawled sheet of paper into my hand. I folded it and put it into my pocket without reading it, and fled as soon as the class was over. 

My textile class was much more enjoyable, as our instructor was very impressed with the progress I had made in reassembling the Jacquard cards, and fetched me another box of burned scraps. Most of them were too small to use, but I thought I could possibly reconstruct the missing pattern, and recreate the connecting cards by cutting out bits of light board.

Design class was fun, as Emil was in a playful mood, and stood at the head of the room, pacing back and forth with his hair flowing out behind him, reading from a book by Saussure. >>Sign, signification, signal<< he announced, drawing a picture of a tree on the board and writing the word "Baum" beneath. >>A linguistic sign is not a link between a thing and a name, but between a concept and a sound pattern - or indeed, a visual signification. So today, girls... today, I want you to design me an incorrect signification. A concept and an image that do not align.<<

>>What, a visual pun?<< said one of the other girls - S. Weber declared the name on her portfolio case - making eyes at Emil as she said it.

>>Ceci n'est pas une pipe<< I quipped, low, so I hoped only Myrthe could hear, but Emil pounded the desk in front of me.

>>Precisely!<< he declared, grinning widely and pointing at me. >>Another A for Fraulein DeLay. I want you to think about meaning, and then play with it, just like the painter Magritte did.<<

S. Weber turned around and glared at me, but I was so happy that someone had recognised my Magritte joke that I returned her scowl with a grin. Her scowl gave way to the hint of a smile, and she rolled her eyes and turned back to the handsome tutor. Had I just made a friend or an enemy? I never seemed to know.

The next day was Saturday, and Myrthe was was in a tizzy of excitement about the concert that night. She wanted me to come with her to a market to go shopping for new clothes to wear, but I had a lot of work to accomplish if I wished to be able to take Saturday night off from studying. Moving my pile of textbooks over to the window, I set them out in a pool of sunshine, but my concentration was broken by someone rapping, hard, on the glass. I looked up, surprised, to see Myrthe standing on her tip-toes on the pavement outside, laughing and gesturing for me to open the window.

\--All work and no play makes Jan a dull girl-- she shouted up at me from the street, but I shook my head and stayed firm.

I drank endless cups of tea and studied steadily until she came home around dinnertime, spreading out her new acquisitions on her bed. At that point, I agreed to stop reading and help her choose which to wear. Like a pair of peacocks, we dolled ourselves up in our finest clothes, did our hair - well, not that I had much hair left to do - and painted our faces. Myrthe always did her best to paint her face like a silent film star, as dramatically as possible. Since we were going out to a nightclub, and I needed to look presentable for the occasion, I allowed her to put make-up on me, exaggerating my eyes with a rim of blue glitter and some sequins stuck to my cheeks. She had a big book of press shots of stars from the Weimar Era, Conrad Veidt and Theda Bara, and she loved to try out the really extreme make-up on our faces. 

\--You are so pale already that I think silent film era make-up will look particularly striking on you-- she told me as she narrowed then darkened my eyebrows. The Creamcheese Club, she assured me, was the kind of place where no one would care, in fact that kind of theatrical performance was positively encouraged. 

We met a few friends from our course at a curry house for dinner, then walked over in a gaggle. I felt a bit nervous, a bit intimidated, being in such a large group of people, but the girls from class all seemed very friendly, at least to each other, as they were comparing notes on which of the other students they hoped to sleep with that night. I was not shocked; I was used to the casual way that art students in London had coupled and then split up. "If you sleep with the same partner twice, you have already joined the Establishment," a horrible young man in my Foundation Course had insisted. I did not agree, but I did not want to look like a square by contradicting him, so I kept my opinions to myself, and decided to express my contempt for the Establishment by not even sleeping with him a first time.

Perhaps I even found it eye-opening, how freely the German girls talked of sex. I listened carefully, taxonomising the young men of our acquaintance. Emil, it seemed, came across like a bit of a lecher, but had a heart of gold. Someone they called Klaus was crazy, an absolute maniac in bed who left bruises everywhere with his acrobatics, but he always had the best drugs. An architecture student named Wolfgang was a playboy and not at all to be taken seriously, but he was very handsome, and had an enormous penis. And Myrthe's favourite, the pretty and soft-spoken Michael, was a bit of a soppy romantic who had already walked away with most of the girls' hearts for his passionate (though softly spoken) anti-war convictions, despite the dimensions of his penis being a complete mystery to all. It was certainly an education, walking with those girls as they discussed their conquests.

After a few blocks, we arrived at the club, though it looked more like a warehouse than a discotheque from the outside. This neighbourhood of Düsseldorf was not yet entirely familiar to me, the old industrial area close to the river. It reminded me of the East End of London in some ways, the old, small Victorian warehouses, factories and workshops that had been left to rot after the heavy industry moved out to more modern facilities on the outskirts of the city. And, like London, every few streets there would be a hole, where clearly a bomb had fallen during the war and destroyed a building. Some of them had been rebuilt in a cheaper, modern style, but others looked like gaps in broken teeth. Since the rents were cheap, and it was near both the Kunstakademie and the museum, it had been slowly colonised by artists and musicians moving into the loft spaces and attics above the rowdy bar scene.

To show we were at the right place, there was a group of long-haired musician types hanging around outside in flared jeans and brightly coloured peasant shirts, and a large poster on the door had that same image of a traffic cone - this time without the uncomfortably naked lady - and the words >>Power Station<< emblazoned in German across the top. Was that the club or the band? It was hard to tell. What kind of a name was Power Station? But then again, remembering the "crazy, cool experimental band" that Michael had mentioned playing there earlier in the week, what kind of name was Can?

A man stopped us at the door of the buildings, and asked to check inside our handbags for smuggled drinks. He was about to charge us the standard entry fee, when Myrthe batted her eyelashes at him, and he relented and charged us all the cheaper student rate. But as I went to walk through, he stopped me. >>I'm sorry, Fraulein, but do you have a driver's license or a passport I can see?<<

>>Leave her alone, she doesn't speak German<< lied Myrthe, but the man was insistent. I dug through my bag and produced my student ID from the Engineering School, which, luckily had my date of birth on it.

>>Ah, so you are 18 after all. You may go in.<< Sulking, I snatched my ID back from him and trotted to rejoin my new friends.

>>You're only 18? Then how are you in the Third Year?<< asked Silke, one of the girls I did not know quite so well. Silke - revealed as the glaring S. Weber from my Design class - was native German, and lived on one of the dormitory floors above us.

I felt slightly ashamed of my youth as we pushed our way into the club and found a table to dump our bags and coats beneath, as we crowded round. >>I finished secondary school at 16. I was so bored I did my A-levels early and went straight to college<< I explained, as sheepishly as if I were telling her that I still wet my bed.

<She's a bit of a swot, this one<< warned Myrthe, though she didn't actually say _swot_ , she said some guttural German word that didn't sound very nice. 

>>Oh is that it!<< Silke seemed to relax as she laughed. >>She has been practically eating out of Emil's butt since the start of our class. I wondered if she might have a bit of a crush!<<

>>A crush? Never<< I protested. >>Emil is our _tutor_ , which makes him practically a professor, and that would make any contact of any kind completely unethical.<<

Myrthe and Silke exchanged looked I couldn't quite understand, before Myrthe shook her head despairingly and announced >>We need to loosen her up, teach her about life, give her some drugs, introduce her to boys. Give her something _really_ unethical to blush about. <<

>>I _have_ taken drugs before << I insisted. >>Just not LSD.<< Well, really, I had smoked a rather damp and smelly roll-up full of marijuana at art school, though I had to say I had been totally unimpressed with the results. For two or three hours, I felt like my head was a balloon, and all of the colours of the surrounding walls and carpet were shouting at me. It had not been a nice experience, and I had no desire to repeat it again.

Myrthe's sweet-faced boy appeared, hiding behind a wall of long reddish-brown hair, and asked quietly if anyone wanted any beer. >>We were going to get a bottle of wine<< replied Silke and started taking up a collection. I put a few Marks in because I didn't want to look like a swot, but I was starting to feel very, very out of place, even wearing the fabulous new gown that Myrthe had not just fixed the tear in but re-tailored to cling to me better. Silke made her way further into the club, walking up to the enormously long, mirror-lined bar that took up one entire wall of the space, and pushed her way into the crowd, burrowing her way to the front.

I looked around, trying to get my bearings, but the sound, the lights and the people were so distracting. It was very loud in the club, as a DJ had just put on the new Pink Floyd record, and the heavy, pulsing bassline was tugging at my head most disconcertingly, making it hard to concentrate. Although it was very dark in the room, someone had set up spotlights, which occasionally swung around and nearly blinded me. It was hard enough for me to try to make conversation with a group of strange girls in a new place, but in a loud, disorienting environment like this strange, swirly Creamcheese Club, it was almost impossible.

Silke reappeared with a bottle of sweet white wine, and I gratefully accepted a small glass to soothe my nerves, though I thought I must be careful not to drink it too quickly in this heat. >>Look who I found<< she announced, gesturing to quite the strangest individual I had met yet, even in this motley, brightly-dressed gang of art students. It was an incredibly tall, thin man with a bush of long, wiry blondish hair and an enormous prow of a nose like the beak of a chicken, though his eyes were shielded by large, round sunglasses in a John Lennon style, even late at night, indoors, in a dark club. But then again, with the surreal film projections and the bright spotlights, perhaps this strange young man had the right idea!

>>Klaus!<< Myrthe exclaimed, as she leapt to her feet and embraced him, followed quickly by her sweet-faced young student. >>Do you remember my friend Michael from art school? He also plays guitar in a band. Spirits of Sound.<< The two men shook hands as Myrthe made small talk to butter him up. >>Are you excited for your gig tonight?<< Ah, so he was a musician. Of course.

>>I've been talking to _Beuys_ << said Klaus breathily, and with great importance. Beuys was the head of an entire department at the Kunstakademie, and though he was supposed to be only Professor of Monumental Sculpture or something archaic sounding like that, he seemed to be the centre around which the entire art school rotated, with interests in every discipline, especially newer forms of art, like media and conceptual art. He was also, technically, our tutor Emil's supervisor, though he seemed, in some way, to somehow be supervising everyone at the entire art school. >>Beuys was very impressed with Power Station's soundcheck, and says he might recommend us to play some Happenings and Openings at various galleries around Düsseldorf. Maybe even the Kunsthalle! You can only imagine how pleased Flori was at this news.<<

>>Ah, you're in Power Station. So when is the record coming out?<< quizzed Michael, in that shop-talk tone of voice, completely oblivious with the way Myrthe was jiggling up and down with the need to talk to Klaus about other things.

>>Couple of months, maybe. Autumn, perhaps. Winter definitely. Flori is keen to put together a full band to tour, early next year. Wait, don't you play guitar, Michael? Maybe you should try out. Have a little improv session with us.<<

>>Nah, I don't think so. I'm happy playing guitar with Spirits of Sound<< said Michael with a pretty shrug and a smile that suggested he might actually be thinking otherwise.

>>But Power Station are doing really well<< said Myrthe, finally pushing her way between them. >>I'm so pleased for you about the record and the gigs and all. But, more importantly, Klaus, do you have any _drugs_ on you? Or have you taken them all? <<

Klaus's face broke open in a wide grin as he spread his coat open. >>Klaus D does not take drugs. I _am_ a drug. <<

And as I watched, fascinated, Myrthe and this strange man, Klaus, actually started exchanging drugs, right out in the middle of the club. >>It's Jan's first time, so it's on me<< she whispered, as Marks changed hands.

>>This is a very strong batch, you better take half if you're new to it<< Klaus warned me, taking a tiny square of paper, delicately ripping it in two, then handing it to me. For a horrible moment, I suddenly felt all of the eyes at the table upon me. Feeling very self conscious, like this was a test of some kind, I turned slightly to the side, surreptitiously ripped the tiny bit of paper in half again, then placed the quarter on my tongue, slipping the other half into the beaded coin purse I was carrying around my waist. Aware that everyone was waiting for some response, I stuck my tongue out, so they could see the bit of paper upon it, then, as everyone burst into cheers and clapped loudly, I swallowed.

Feeling my face flush, I sat down again and sipped my wine, feeling my head all mixed up and carried away with the crazy jittering organ riff of the Pink Floyd song. I already felt nervous, and quite disoriented. There were so many people, and more pouring into the club at every moment - Emil's friends' group must be very popular, I thought. People were starting to dance, pushing through into a large, wide-open space at the back that had been set up as a dance floor. Up on a podium, highlighted by a spotlight, stood an older man, dressed in a strange, old-fashioned outfit with a leather vest, slowly waving his hands back and forth in front of his face as the lights changed colour, as if in imitation of elaborate Asian dances I had once seen with my father in Hyderabad. Klaus gestured towards him with his chin and intoned >> _Beuys_! << Our host? He was too disorienting to watch, as a film was being shown on a back wall. Film? Actually, on closer examination it was films, a whole wall of televisions, half showing one program, and the other half blazing static. The flickering light seemed to make the dancers pulse and strobe - or was that the effect of the drug I had just taken? No; a wild looking man was standing in front of the stage waving a strobe light about, catching the dancers in grotesque freeze frame.

For a moment, I felt the black tide of panic rise in the back of my throat, but I wrestled it back down. Take a deep breath. Then another. The light caught the face of the wild man with the strobe, and I realised it was only Emil, trying to set up a spotlight for his supervisor. A sip of my drink and I started to feel calm again, even as the music changed, a throbbing bassline descending down the scale. Iron Butterfly. In A Gadda Da Vida. I closed my eyes and brought to mind the cover of the record, the pretty psychedelic colours, the record company logo, the credits on the back. I knew the song well, well enough for the bassline to feel like a reassuring old friend. I took a third deep breath and opened my eyes, smiled at the girl sitting next to me, but felt unable to catch the thread of her conversation as she chatted with a handsome student on her other side.

Why had I agreed to the nightclub? I hated nightclubs! Well, no, that wasn't strictly true. I liked the ones where you only had to dance, and you could lose yourself in the throbbing noise until the crowd didn't bother you any more. What I hated were the ones that demanded talking and flirting and paying attention to all the delicate strands of social interaction around you. How people managed it all, with the noise and the lights, I would never know. Feeling a bit lonely and rather left out, I excused myself and pushed off to find the ladies' room.

There, it was brighter, but a lot quieter, as I stood with my back against a plain tiled wall, pressing the cold glass of wine against my forehead to cool down. A girl arrived, peered in and saw me, and asked >>is there a queue?<<

>>No, no. Go right in.<< I waved her through, and pretended to fix my make-up in the mirror. Oh god, no. Mirrors were a trap. My own face seemed to shimmer and warp in front of me, my face so unfamiliar with the short hair and the dark eyebrows, as my cheekbones seeming to pulse with a strange blue light. No. Wait. It was only the sequins that Myrthe had glued to my face earlier in the evening. I turned back to the plain tiled wall, seeking relief, and let out a small gasp. The structured white grid was also warping and pulsing, bending and collapsing in on itself like a depiction of Einstein's spacetime field I had seen illustrated in one of my physics textbooks. It seemed to call out to me, to ask me to enter into its shiny, antiseptic white domain, to roll down the gravity well, and deep into spacetime itself.

No! Pulling myself back together, I blinked, and the illusion was dispelled. I washed my hands, picked up my wineglass where I had left it by the mirror, and pushed back into the heat and darkness of the club.

A grinning face appeared out of nowhere, leering towards me. --Jan! Are you alright?--

For a second, I pulled away, terrified, but then the leering demon resolved itself into the familiar features of my friend Myrthe. Not really trusting my voice, I nodded.

\--Klaus is right. The acid is very strong. I'm coming up already. Are you?--

\--I think so...-- Her face shimmered again, turned into a sexy cartoon witch from a Hammer horror film, then slid into a 1920s silent film star again, but the colours had left her cheeks, leaving her all black and white with strange spider webs across her cheeks.

\-- _Groovy_. Tonight's going to be an amazing evening.-- She hugged me and deposited a quick kiss on my sequinned cheek, then dashed off again in search of the gentle Michael, leaving me clinging to the wall for support. I had to step carefully as I moved away from the wall, as there were cushions scattered across the floor, with various bodies sprawled across them. I did not like stepping through bodies which seemed to surge and boil like the waves of the sea, so I made my way carefully towards the open floor.

It wasn't so bad when I just looked up, at the ceiling, where the coloured spotlights were exploding into rosettes of fireworks, all gold and red and pink. The music changed again to a heavy bassline and a blistering guitar sound; I didn't know this song, and the woman was singing in German. No, wait, it was English, I just didn't seem to understand English any more. _Go to Edgar Allen in the tower of sleep. There lives a lion, they call him God._ No, it was definitely English, it just didn't make any sense, like Ralf and his vahr-EYE-ables.

A man approached me, and stared up into my face, seemingly enraptured by the glitter. >>You're very tall, sapphire girl<< he observed, as if this were a reasonable gambit to start a conversation with. I glared at him, told him >>No I'm not. You're just short<< and pushed off into the crowd again. How did people stand it, going to nightclubs in this state? I found them difficult enough when sober. I remembered a night at the UFO club in London the previous year, with my old schoolfriend Valerie. A man standing in front of us had completely lost all his composure, and started howling like a wolf and tearing all his clothes off, as Hawkwind roared away in the background. By the end of Hurry On Sundown, he was rolling on the floor, completely nude except for his shaggy beard. Valerie had laughed at him, called him 'acid casualty', but now, with this strange feeling coursing through my veins, I started to understand how he felt. What if I went mad? What if I started howling like a wolf and tearing my clothes off? Panic coursed through me again like a sharp green tang, but this time when I looked up to the ceiling for reassurance, the fireworks were rearranging themselves into geometric patterns.

As I stumbled forwards, drawn by the thread of the next song's pattering drumbeat, I stared up at the ceiling, watching as the tiles of the bathroom reformed themselves in pink and gold and fiery red, in endless rows above my head. A bass joined in, hopping back and forth between octaves on one note only, as the matrix pattern on the ceiling slowly started to move, flowing off into space like a geometrical map, carrying me up into the sky with it. Flailing dancers pulled back, as I moved forwards, following both the pulsating tile pattern, and the bassline. I could see it all now. The matrix was my computer, the glowing lines the algorithm of my code, little tiny strings of binary numbers flying about like scribbly scrawling Sanskrit. I reached up to pluck a zero, and found my fingers trailing little golden plumes of numbers. Everywhere on the matrix that my fingers touched, numbers stuck like glittering stars, bits of code coming apart and recombining like DNA sequences, like strings of Jacquard cards all sewn together, 1 and 0 and 0 and 1 in an elegant sequence, following the skittering guitar that had joined the drums and bass.

And suddenly, I saw it. I saw where the code was getting stuck! Right at the end of the first iteration, just as it was prepared to start the data modification that created the second iteration, the numbers were clustering together and falling down like arcs of sparks from a welding torch. I had to clear the first loop before the second could start, but the second loop was dependent on the first! Could I divert it to memory? What was the answer? The numbers and bits of code scribbled all over the ceiling were trying to tell me something, if I could just follow them, the bass was trying to tell me something. Raising my hands higher, every movement of my fingers seemed to add more letters and numbers and unrecognisable runes and Greek letters to the program, as code seemed to be spilling from my fingertips. Follow the bass, it told me, pulling me deeper into the club, towards the source of the sound, as the music got louder and louder, and I could feel the floorboards beneath my feet shaking with bass vibrations.

My whole body seemed to be throbbing with the music, half-dancing, half-programming the sky with my fingertips as I moved towards the most enormous bass speaker I had ever seen, so huge that a part of it seemed to have been rolled up in on itself like a snail's shell. An Alice in Wonderland sort of speaker. A magical horn that would lead me to another topsy-turvy universe of quantum strangeness were I to enter into its curved belly. Surely the amazing code that the matrix was trying to feed me was coming from in there, along with the looping, building cadenza of the song, as a man's voice appeared, singing a hymn to a goddess named Mother Sky, about the matrix, the numbers, the programming code and everything. I moved closer, needing to be inside the music, needing to get into that space, to climb into the horn and commune with my programme.

And suddenly a body was in my way. How rude! Another body where I needed to be, a tall, long, thin, angular body, dancing and grooving and scribbling his own code with his own fingers, all blue and shiny neon, muddling up my perfect golden code. I tried to move around him, and he looked down at me, surprised, but then twisted his body so that he was between me and the snail-curled speaker again. I moved my hand, flicked it across his chest and watched the golden numbers flow out of my hands and into him, trying to bind him with my energy. He blocked me again, physically trying to prevent me from entering the speaker. I dodged another way. He followed, thrusting his arm between me and the musical equipment. His arms were longer than mine, twirling around my head, leading me to spin around, following the blue neon numbers spilling from his long, elegant fingers. I raised my arm in an elegant arc; he repeated the movement. I twisted my hands together like snake dancing, and he imitated that movement, too. I dodged back, swinging my hips, trying to get away from him, and he followed me, his arms gently encircling me, but never quite touching, just trying to guide me gently away from the horn. And suddenly we were dancing together, me and him, blue neon and shimmering golden numbers all intermingling with one another. And then I saw it - how to fix my code. Put the numbers through all together, not one set after another, AAAAA followed by BBBBB then CCCCC, but leave them in sequence while they processed. ABABABAB in the first iteration, then ABCABCABCABCABC and so on and so forth, and if I limited the width of the field they would display in, they would fall into columns, and the computer would go on weaving itself like a tapestry that went...

ABCD  
ABCD  
ABCD  
ABCD  
ABCD

Perfect!

I looked up to thank the man whose blue neon fingertips had provided the relevant idea, and looked straight into the face of an Egyptian God.

I stopped dancing, and just stood, shuffling slightly, swaying in the arms of the most striking man I'd ever seen. He was very tall - taller than me, for certain - with a supple, slender, willowy sort of body that seemed to sway gently in the hurricane of sound coming from the huge, curled bass speaker. His face was perched at the top of a long, elegant neck, a round face, with prominent cheekbones and a huge, high forehead off which his jaw-length hair seemed to boil backwards like an unruly dark cloud. Thin lips that seemed to be on the verge of curling into a smile; intense, intelligent, piercing blue eyes with great, long, sweeping blond lashes, all lined by faint but perfectly straight eyebrows. And a great, long, straight arrow of his nose, pointing directly towards me as if intending to pierce me. Lit up all blue and golden by the lights, he looked like Horus, the great falcon-headed god of the sky, the sun and the moon.

Unable to speak - and the music was so loud he would not have heard me anyway - I simply smiled dumbly at him and continued to sway in his arms, moving my body back and forth to the shuffling beat that was finally giving way to another song. When he smiled back at me, his face seemed to break in two, a mad, irrepressible little-boy grin that was somehow both mad scientist and child-on-Christmas-Morning all at the same time, full of wonder and joy and pure pleasure.

The next song started, and he didn't even need to ask me to dance. He dropped his arms from my shoulders, and for a moment I was sad, afraid he was going to leave, but instead, he picked up my hands and started to gesture with them again. I laughed and got the idea. He liked the hand-dancing, so I taught him how to do it, and twisted our arms together like two snakes, like two vines gently growing together up the tree of life.

"At least the golden sparking showers of numbers have stopped coming out of my fingers," I sighed, not really meaning for him to hear me, and anyway, who in this crazy German club would speak English?

But he paused, let go of my hands, and put his hand under my chin, cocking my face up towards him, to look into my eyes. I saw the irises of his eyes contract, expand, turning from the pale blue of distant mountains to the deep icy blue of the Atlantic ocean as the spotlights passed across them. Holding his other hand up, he moved his finger back and forth in front of my eyes, before inquiring, not disapproving, but just curious. "What are you on?"

I almost didn't notice that he was speaking English too, his accent was so subtle. "Klaus D gave me some LSD, but he said it was strong, so I ripped it in two, and only took half. It's not so bad," I shrugged.

"What did you do with the other half?" he asked, urgently, as if worried I was going to drop it in the water supply or something.

I reached to my waist and found the small beaded change purse I'd tied there in lieu of a belt. The tiny piece of paper had worked its way to the bottom, but it was still intact, so I extracted it. "Here it is. Safe." He looked at it so curiously, that I felt generous and held it out towards him. "Do you want it?"

The muscles in his face tautened, then released. I could not read his expression, but he seemed to be considering it. Finally, he smiled, raised his eyebrows slightly, then opened his mouth and extended his tongue. I raised my hand and placed the paper - and my finger - on his tongue. Moist. Firm. Receptive. As his lips closed about my finger, I felt a surge of electricity go all through my body almost like an orgasm. Shivering slightly, I pulled my finger away quickly, then felt awful as I saw his panicked reaction.

"I am so sorry," he said quietly, stepping back a few inches.

"No, it's alright," I assured him, still feeling the tiny moist beads of his saliva clinging to my skin where he had touched me. I wanted desperately to roll the loop of film back, to keep my finger in his mouth, see what would happen next, see if I could follow my finger with my tongue.

No! That was crazy; I'd only just met this man. I didn't even know his name, let alone the slightest thing about him. What had come over me that I wanted to kiss him?

"Here," he offered, unwrapping a silken scarf from around his neck, and wiping my finger dry with it. The movement of the tassels caught my eye, and suddenly everything was bending and writhing and swirling again. "All better?"

"Danke schön," I said without thinking.

"Bitte." The worry passed, and his face cracked back into that marvellous smile, the spotlights catching the trailing curls of his hair and shooting little red and pink highlights across it. >>Teach me how to do that Indian snake-dance again?<<

>>No more words<< I said, and took his hands in mine. >>I can't think in German.<<

"Then do not think. Dance."

We danced. I don't know for how long. Hours seemed to go by, but when I looked up, the song wasn't even over, and only minutes had passed. Sometimes I grew bolder, and would press my hips against his for a moment, noting his face grow pleased with surprise, and then we'd pull apart, circling one another and trying to make each other laugh by throwing silly shapes at each other with our arms. I didn't want to leave his side, I wanted to dance all night, even as I noticed that his eyes were growing wild, and he had started to look at his own hands with wonder and amazement.

Finally, he stopped dancing, just standing in front of the speaker horn and staring at his hands. The music had grown quiet, and people were sort of shuffling away, off to the bar to get drinks, or to find friends. But my Horus was intent upon his hands. >>There are tiny numbers in my palms<< he observed, rubbing them together with a slightly worried expression. >>Did you put them there?<<

>>I did, you know<< I laughed, remembering how my own little trip had started. >>It is my code. I took my code and I put it into you.<<

He looked up at me and grinned, his eyes flashing. >>You translated me into code? Germans are very good at codes, you know.<<

>>And the English are very good at cracking them<< I teased.

He stared at me intently, the corners of his thin lips twitching up towards that smile. >>Are you going to crack me, then? Will you break me?<<

>>Break you?<< I asked quizzically. >>Maybe just rearrange you a little.<< Reaching out, I tentatively touched the tip of his sharp nose, remembering the feel of his tongue against my finger.

>>You are a very strange girl<< he observed, not angry, not frightened, just like stating a fact.

>>Am I? How?<< My voice was defiant even as I hoped my smile was sweet. The music had changed, a weird grinding sound like an organ being rolled downhill, sounding very close by.

>>You remind me of another strange little English girl. But this one fell down a rabbit hole, and then walked through a mirror. Can you walk through mirrors?<<

I was about to reply, and tell him about the dangerous, warping matrix-mirror in the ladies' loo, but suddenly, his head went back and his slightly sticky-outy ears seemed to perk up like a fox catching the sound of the hunt.

>>My music<< he said abruptly. >>They're playing my music. They're starting without me...<< And suddenly he was gone, in a flourish of silk scarf and a flap of a floral shirt, leaving me staring at an empty speaker horn that was slowly filling up with this weird, grinding, rasping organ music.

I staggered back from the side of the stage, feeling that organ pummelling and bullying and lifting me off my feet, until I reached an angle where I could see what was going on. Klaus, the odd wizard who was the source of my acid trip, had settled into the drumkit right in the centre of the stage, and was starting to tap out a crazy jazzy beat against the rim of his snare. To his right was an enormous organ, piled so high with pieces of equipment and ripped out bits of machine guts that I could not see over it to the man hunched over the keys. Then, on the other side of the stage, next to another similarly towering pile of electrical equipment, appeared my Horus, removing his silk scarf with a flourish before picking up an enormous flute and raising it to his lips.

>>Hurry up!<< said a voice from the other side of the stage, an awfully familiar voice that I had the terrible feeling I knew, and didn't actually like. Was he admonishing my Horus for being late to the stage? I felt a flush of guilt at keeping him dancing for so long... but no. It was apparently the name of the song, as it started out slow and stately, the gentle organ buzz, the rattling drums, and the flute rising up through the scale before falling again, trailing its own electronic echo like my hands had been trailing numbers. Oh god. The LSD! From the rapturous look on my Horus's face as he seemed to become entranced by the lights glinting off his own flute, I realised it had to be hitting him just about now, as hard as it had hit me coming across the dance floor.

The flute suddenly went wild, moving from breathy lyrical scales to a weird, fluttering, in-out cross-motion, cutting across the steady beat of the organ and drums, even as the drummer kicked into life, those skinny arms flailing powerfully as all three musicians seemed to hit their groove, speeding steadily up like a car rolling down a hill, picking up speed.

As the music moved from slow march to energetic dancing song, I felt myself start to move, staring up at my Horus, his head bobbing and weaving through the spotlights. The groove was infectious, hypnotic, and yet half of the audience seemed to be rooted to the spot, just staring up at the stage in shock at how strange, how new this odd, angular, minimal music sounded after all the hippie jams. But suddenly Myrthe was by my side, dancing, seemingly pulled towards the stage by the powerful beat that Klaus was thrashing out of his drumkit.

\--Emil was right! They're amazing, aren't they?-- she shouted in my ear, though even she couldn't break my trance of watching my Horus, his whole body now swaying with the wild jazz streaming from his flute. --Jan? Jan, are you alright?--

I pulled myself back down to earth through layers of neon blue numbers and swirling jazz flute. --I... Myrthe, I think I've fallen in love. I... I love him.--

Looking up towards the stage, Myrthe laughed. --Who? Klaus? Oh, you will have good drugs, all the time, if you get with Klaus. He may be wild, but I think a good girl like you... you might tame him.--

\--No, not Klaus-- I stuttered, then pointed towards Horus, absolutely lost in his music, his whole body spilling out shards of glittering noise and shimmering melodies. --Him. The great god Horus. Loki. Pan. The piper at the gates of Düsseldorf. With the flute.--

Myrthe followed my finger with her gaze, then seemed to draw back, shocked. -- _Florian_? Florian Schneider-Esleben?-- Everything from her posture to her shocked tone of voice indicated that she thought I was completely crazy.

\--Florian?-- I repeated. He even had a beautiful name. It suited him. Florian Horus. The symmetry of the names could not be a coincidence. And as he played, his head twisted around with small, bird-like motions.

\--Oh, Jan, no. No, no, no-- bemoaned Myrthe. --Don't throw your heart at that one, Jan. Sweetie, he doesn't _like_ girls.--

\--What?-- Had I been mistaken, about that moment where he sucked my finger, had he not wanted to kiss me? Or, like that awful student in the Computer Room the other night, had he mistaken me for a man? --What, does he like boys?--

\--No-- sighed Myrthe deeply. --He doesn't like anyone.-- She paused, as he bent over slightly, continuing to play his flute with his left hand as he adjusted his pile of electronics with his right. --He likes _machines_.--

I smiled, feeling the wall of noise building to a climax around us, then abruptly stopped. For a moment, the entire audience seemed to hold its breath, but then a few people started to clap. And then without missing a beat, the song picked up exactly where it had left off, and carried on to a short, sharp finale. Finally, I exhaled, remembering something my father had once teased me about. --That's OK. I am half machine.--

We danced until the sweat ran down my back. I drank half a glass of sweet white wine, and the noise, the heat, the crowd stopped bothering me at all. All I cared about was the music, and the tall, thin man concentrating so intently on the reels of music cascading from the tip of his flute. But they only played for about half an hour, and then they abruptly stopped. I don't know that they could have played for much longer, they played with such intensity - Klaus was so drenched with sweat he looked like he was about to fall over when he uncurled himself from behind the drum kit. My Horus - Florian - disappeared behind the stage, and I didn't know what to do. I'd never done anything like this before! Valerie had always been the one to go chasing off after boys in bands. I was never interested. I liked the music, but what did it matter to me, who made it?

And yet here I was, hanging about by the edge of the stage like those silly girls I despised at the UFO club, wondering if I should try to push my way backstage to find the object of my infatuation, or if he would come out and find me.

I needn't have worried. About two minutes later, even as the other boy started packing up his gear behind the organ, I saw Florian's head come peeping around the edge of the stage, towelling his face off as he leapt down into the crowd to find me. >>So, what did you think, my little dancing Alice in Wonderland?<< he asked, his face breaking into that impossible grin again.

>>I... I had no idea music like that could even exist.<<

>>Is that good or bad?<< He actually looked worried, like he seriously was afraid I might not have enjoyed it, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully. >>The drug... I probably was not at my best. Klaus was right, it is very strong. I kept losing the beat, and finding it had run off somewhere else without me, like a tiger chasing its own tail.<<

I shook my head, grasping to find the right words in German, and giving up. "No. It was incredibly good. Astonishing. Completely unlike anything I ever heard in England. That rare thing - original. And not just pure novelty, either. It is as if you have invented a completely different direction, a new dimension. Like, not even up, down, left or right. You guys went... sideways. It sounds like... it sounds like the future."

Florian grinned wildly, and indicated his pleasure with a gentle shrug of his narrow shoulders. "You are too kind... I..." His face seemed to form a question mark, and I wondered what it was he wanted to ask me next, when a shadow came up behind him. I did not recognise him at first, the organ-player, because he was dressed, slightly ridiculously for the temperature of the club, in a pair of tight black leather trousers and a black motorcycle jacket.

>>Flori, your gear is still all over the stage. You need to pack up so we can take it back to our workshop...<< The organist turned and looked into my face just as I turned and stared into the breathless, sweaty, smarmy face of... Ralf Hütter. Oh sweet lord, no. I had never been quite so irritated at anyone interrupting a conversation as I had at that moment, and why, dear lord, did it have to be _him_?


	4. Florian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrthe and Jan invite the whole band to sneak into their dormitory after hours, so that Jan can get to know the enigmatic flautist a little better. But unfortunately, Power Station seem to be a buy one, get one free offer.

I scowled at the man who had just interrupted my tete-a-tete with the magical, flute-playing Florian, even as Ralf's face lit up in a grin. "So you came in the end. I thought you were going to throw my flyer away when I gave it to you in class, but I see you decided to grace us with your presence after all."

I was about to open my mouth and protest that he and his stupid flyer - which I had thrown away as soon as I was out of the building - had nothing to do with my presence, we had only been drawn by the promise of his drummer's drugs... when Florian interjected "I am sorry, but do you two know one another?"

Ralf nodded with an air of possession that infuriated me. "Flori, this is the girl I have been telling you about. The girl from my programming class, the one who is working on art-generation programmes on the mainframe at night..."

"Oh." For a terrible moment, Florian's face absolutely fell. But then just as suddenly, it sparked back to life. " _Oh_! The girl with the Jacquard cards! And the computer algorithm she is teaching to paint..."

I glared at Ralf, feeling a little bit creeped out that he had seemingly told so much about me to his friend. "Something like that." 

But I couldn't stay angry for long with Florian beaming at me so infectiously. "You have no idea how pleased I am to meet you."

Michael and Myrthe appeared just as Florian and Ralf returned to the stage to start packing all their weird electronic boxes into crates. >>They've stopped serving at the bar. I think they're going to kick us all out soon<< she announced.

>>It's OK. We can go on to a after hours club<< Ralf called down hopefully, casting a glance in my direction. >>How about the Mata Hari?<<

>>Phew!<< laughed Myrthe. >>Alright for those of us who are pop stars with singles playing on German radio, but some of us are impoverished students. How about we go back to our room? Jan has a bottle of vodka.<<

>>Myrthe!<< I hissed. >>It's late! How are they going to get in past the guard?<<

>>We're on the ground floor<< she shrugged. >>We go in and open the window, they climb up from the street.<< She giggled as she said this, looking at Michael from under her eyelashes, as if she had forgotten he wasn't in the band.

>>You mean we are going to break into a girls' dormitory?<< piped up Klaus, his head popping up behind the drum kit he was dismantling. >>I love it. Let's drive over now.<<

>>Oh no, not in your state<< Ralf dictated, quite sensibly. There was a brief argument over who was going to drive, as they loaded all of their equipment into a rusted transit van, with Klaus insisting that he was perfectly fine to drive, but Florian pointing out that if he and I had been hallucinating off a quarter of a tab, when Klaus had taken a whole one, well. There was no way any of us were driving the short distance in one piece. Ralf offered to drive, but Klaus seemed almost insulted by the offer, until finally Michael stepped in and said he had only had one bottle of dark Düsseldorf altbier over the course of the evening, and he would be fine.

>>Oh no<< protested Klaus. >>I don't even know this guy. I'm not handing some stranger my keys.<<

>>It's alright<< said Florian. >>I've known little Rother since grade school. I can vouch for him.<<

>>Can you even drive a van?<< pestered Klaus. >>It's not like driving a little 2CV you know.<<

Michael drew himself up to his full height, uncowed by the unconventional drummer's aggressive disbelief. >>I drove ambulances for over a year. I did my National Service at the local hospital, because I am a conscientious objector, so I am acquainted with handling large vehicles.<<

Klaus actually looked quite impressed at that, slapping the slight man on the back. >>Conscientious objector, eh? Are you going to the Peace Rally next weekend?<<

>>I painted the banners for the march<< said Michael with a proud smile, and Klaus roared with approval, and dropped the carkeys into his hand.

So Michael drove, and Myrthe sat up front and showed him the way, while the rest of us squeezed ourselves into the back of the van, trying to hold on between the organ, the drum kit and all the boxes of gear. Even in my crazy year of running around London with Valerie, I had never done anything so bold. Driving around Düsseldorf at midnight, with a van-load of drug-taking musicians... and what was worse was, I was about to try to smuggle them into our dormitory? If my father could see me now!

We made a detour down by the train station, and as we turned into a dark side-street full of dodgy looking clubs that looked like they might have been brothels, I suddenly wondered if this had been such a bright idea. But no, the van pulled up through a tiny driveway in the centre of an industrial building covered in yellow tiles, and parked in a small internal yard. >>Won't be a second<< called Ralf as he opened the back door of the van, and started unloading all of the boxes into a darkened warehouse off the street.

When Florian hopped out of the van to carry his crates through, I tried to make my uncertain way down to the ground. >>Can I come in and use the loo?<<

>>No; no girls allowed<< snapped Ralf with a petulant secrecy that annoyed me.

>>We've only just moved in, the workshop is not really in a fit state for young women.<< Florian explained apologetically, as he re-joined me in the van, but now there was more room he didn't sit quite so close to me.

When Ralf locked up, and leapt back into the van, pulling the door closed behind him, we set off again, seemingly headed right back to the Altstadt we had just left. After the long drive, the hallucinations seemed mostly to have left me, but the passing lights of the city still seemed to hum and throb in a beautiful way. Myrthe murmured directions softly to Michael in the front seat, as we made a complete circuit of central Düsseldorf and ended up back at the dormitory.

>>Park here<< Myrthe directed, as we turned down our street. >>Yes, there's a spot right in front. If you pull in right up close to the kerb, you can probably climb up on the roof of the van, and step into our room.<<

>>Which one is it?<< asked Michael, backing the van up with a practised hand.

>>The one at the end, there, see? You can see the red geometric scarf thrown across on top of the curtains. It will glow when we turn the light on.<<

>>Red light district?<< blurted out Ralf, nudging Florian with his elbow, and I wanted to punch him. Since the van had emptied of gear, he had still been sitting just slightly too close to me for comfort, throwing his arm out across my lap every time the van took a corner. Both the drug I had taken earlier, and the half glass of wine that soothed my nerves had mostly worn off, and I was starting to be very irritated by his presumptions again.

\--I can't believe we're doing this-- I hissed to Myrthe as we climbed down out of the van and nonchalantly strolled into the building, waving at the guard and showing our IDs as we passed. He was so sleepy he barely even glanced at us, and certainly didn't check the IDs.

\--You need to relax, loosen up and live a little-- Myrthe hissed back as we tip-toed down the hallway to our room.

\--Relax? I've just spent the evening on drugs, dancing with a strange flautist, in a night club. I don't know how much looser you want me to be.--

\--I won't call you _loose_ until you have actually bedded our strange flautist friend-- she teased back.

We let ourselves into our room, and locked the door behind us. Then, as I went to the cupboard to dig my bottle of vodka out from the suitcase where I'd hidden it from our neighbours, she went and threw open the window. With much giggling, and scuffling of feet, one by one, four long-haired young men dropped into our dorm room.

>>Can we smoke in here?<< asked Klaus, as he started to roll a joint.

>>If you leave the window open. Here, use this as an ashtray.<< Myrthe directed, handing over the heavy glass bowl we used for the purpose.

>>Can we put the radio on<< Michael wanted to know, as Ralf was being annoyingly inquisitive, trying to peer into my closet before casting a disparaging eye over my bookshelf, fingering the spines of my books on programming and artificial intelligence.

>>No touching!<< I insisted, closing the closet door decisively against the prying Hütter nose and shooing him away from my books. >> _My_ things. <<

But Florian had found the stereo and turned it on, flicking through the radio dial with an intent expression, selecting and rejecting polka, schlager music, a lugubrious classical quartet, and a perky sounding German chat show, before finally settling on a station that seemed to be playing strange, haunting middle-eastern music.

>>Oh no, not the Turkish music again<< complained Klaus loudly.

"He is obsessed with Turkish music at the moment," Ralf explained to me carefully, as if he were used to translating his friend's odd whims - and as if I needed the conversation translated into English, I noted, though I couldn't tell why this bothered me so much.

"I love the Turkish music," Florian enthused, crossing his legs and folding himself into a tightly-packed ball in the corner of the room by the speakers. "It is the best thing about the new immigrants..." He cocked his head as if listening closely. "It is so subtle, and yet so complex. The scales they use are so interesting. They're... how do you say in English." His fingers fluttered about his face as he thought with his hands. "Micro... tonal."

>>Watch out, Ralf, he'll be getting an electric Saz soon<< teased Michael.

>>Stop with the English, you guys, it does my head in. Where's the vodka?<< demanded Klaus, lighting up the joint and taking a draw before passing it on towards me.

I shook my head briskly. "Nine. Danker shern."" That was one thing that I had learned from hanging out so much with Valerie, that it did not agree with me. The world was full enough of loud noises and bright lights as it was; taking marijuana left me a dazzled, overwhelmed mess, unable to concentrate on anything.

Ralf settled opposite me, laughing openly at my accent. "Schön" he corrected, exaggerating the Germanic vowel as he pursed his lips into a little circle. "It amazes me that someone so full of beauty cannot pronounce the word for beautiful."

Myrthe walked by me to take the joint, and gave me a knowing look as she passed, before bursting into giggles of her own. >>Laying it on a bit thick, Hütter<< she snickered, and his face turned a bright beet red. --Watch out, Jan. That one _likes_ you-- she whispered, in Dutch, in my ear.

"What?" I snorted, absolutely outraged.

But at least Ralf, shrinking with embarrassment, shuffled off to supervise Michael pouring out glasses of vodka. We only had three wineglasses (there had been a little accident with the fourth) so we were making up the numbers with two teacups and the tall glass Myrthe usually used to store her knitting needles. Klaus picked up a pair of discarded knitting needles and started to drum along with the haunting Turkish music, on the edge of my desk. I had never known someone who could make such sweet music tapping away on a tin-can full of paintbrushes and an angle-poise lamp, but that was Klaus. We had nothing to mix the liquor with, so we had to drink it neat, but with the music playing and the drinks and the joint going round, it was starting to look like a real party, especially once Myrthe turned on the mood lighting and lit some incense.

I looked around for Florian, but he seemed to have disappeared. For a moment, I panicked - after all, that was the whole reason I had consented to have my personal space invaded by all these musicians, and ended up with Klaus sitting, with his dirty boots up on my bed, smoking and tapping away. Wait, no, there he was. The tall, angular flautist had somehow managed to actually crawl underneath my work desk and was poking around in the cardboard box down there. Oh no...

I shot swiftly over, ready for disaster, but then I stopped. He had, without even being told, recognised the system by which I had categorised the Jacquard cards, and had carefully preserved their order, while combing through the unsorted and damaged ones, pouring over them like a manuscript.

Sitting down next to him, I pointed at the cards and shook my head. "Some of them are so badly damaged I've given up hope of retrieving them. I can only hope to extrapolate the information from textile catalogues of the same period."

"Look." He pointed closely at the patterns of the burn marks. I realised at once what he meant. The cards had all been jumbled up and turned over during the intervening decades, but if they had been stacked in a neat pile when they burned, the burn marks themselves would form a continuous gradient through the stack.

"Florian, you're a genius," I told him, picking out more cards and sorting them by their burn marks.

"I have been saying to him that for years." Suddenly, we were not alone, as a third head joined us under the desk. It had been close with two people, but with Ralf crowded in as well, it was suddenly unbearable. I glared at him, as Ralf glared at the cards. "Oh. So there is no ' _nein berühren_ ' with Flori, I see," he observed slightly sulkily.

"Well, Flori clearly knows what he's doing," I snapped back.

Looking more than slightly put out, Florian pulled away, peering at us suspiciously, as if he were one of those men who could not stand even the whiff of conflict. But before any of us could speak, suddenly his shoulders twitched. He turned his head from side to side like a bird, as if searching for something. Craning his neck as if to catch something, he twitched his head towards the window. It was a good five seconds before I heard it, the high-pitched whine of a siren, then the roar of a motorcycle engine. The police! For a moment, I held my breath, but it drew close, then roared past off into the night again.

"C sharp," announced Florian with a decisive nod of his birdlike head. "The siren is almost perfectly in tune with the music, if a little sharp. Or... I think the drive belt on the radio station's record player is sticking a little." He paused, listening more intently to the music, or the distant whine of the engine. "No... I think the policeman needs to check his carburettor, perhaps."

Ralf laughed at my surprise, his face like a proud father. "Flori has perfect pitch, the lucky bastard. And an almost uncanny affinity for the sound of motors. He could probably duplicate that exact motorcycle, carburettor problems and all, with his tone generators and modulators."

"I am better with aeroplanes," Florian explained with patently false modesty and a wry twist to his thin eyebrows. They were slightly lighter in colour than his hair, giving him a permanently inquisitive expression. "I could perform for you a jumbo jet with a hoover, a ring modulator and an echo unit."

I burst out laughing. Not even because he was funny, though he was, in an odd, charming way, but because I was so happy. For the first time in my life, I had the distinct feeling that here, I had found _my people_ , that I had found a man with whom I could be perfectly myself, and not have to hide any of my strange obsessions. I took a sip of my vodka, lowering my gaze modestly, then asked "How are you with fans?"

"Fans? We do not have fans as you say. We are too obscure, too experimental to have fans," he sighed.

"No, I mean fans. Cooling fans. When I was little, and my father was building new models of Ferranti in his workshop, he had fans going constantly, to keep the tubes from overheating. One giant fan in each corner of the room, resonating with the metal cabinets, just slightly out of phase with one another, humming and whirring like a giant cat breathing. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard in my life. I used to crawl in there, and fall asleep underneath his desk while he was working, I loved that sound so much."

Florian's constantly twitching head grew still as he stared at me, his thin lips twisting up into a sweet smile, even as his hands never ceased to move, turning the cards over and over, end over end, feeling the punched holes with his elegant fingertips. "You are not from behind the mirror, I think; you are from another planet." He glanced over at Ralf with an unreadable expression. "Our planet."

We talked for hours. I don't even remember what about, as the vodka took hold and loosened my tongue but loosened my memory as well. Florian, so shy, so hesitant at first, seemed to take to his subject and a torrent of words flew like birds. The sound of cooling fans. Motor car engines. Light aircraft, Florian so impossibly impressed that I knew how to fly a plane, even as Ralf scoffed at the idea that girls could fly. I spent my teenage years out in the deep, deep bush of South Africa, I informed him. How else were we to get in and out when the roads, damp ditches for eight months of the year, flooded into rivers? Of course I could fly. My uncle had taught me. Florian was so intrigued by the idea and quizzed me so intently on the specific character of Cessna engine noise that I even forgot to be annoyed at Ralf and his impertinent and often highly inappropriate questions.

I think they would actually have stayed all night, drinking and talking and sorting Jacquard cards on the floor, had Michael not knocked on the top of the table, startling us all half to death, to tell us that he was getting very tired, and if Ralf and Klaus wanted him to be able to drive them back to Krefeld, they would have to leave soon, before he fell asleep and crashed the van. And so, as loathe as I was to see them go, I bid them goodbye and watched them climb out the window one by one, jumping across the gap to the van's roof.

But Florian turned before he climbed down to the ground. "May I come back some time, to work on the rest of your Jacquard sequence?"

I shrugged lightly, trying to hide my outright joy. "Of course." Florian grinned widely, bowed, then leapt down to the ground.

Ralf scowled slightly, but turned back towards me. "I will see you in class on Monday, yes?"

I was too tired to even be rude to him. "Yes. See you in class." Ralf nodded, then slithered, somewhat less elegantly, to the ground behind his friend.

As I turned back to the wreckage of our room, I saw that Myrthe was still starry-eyed from her conversation with Michael. --I can't believe it-- she teased me. --You've never been to the Creamcheese Club in your life before, but you walk off with not just one, but the entire band.--

-Come now, don't joke. Not the whole band. Just one.-- My face flushed as I wondered if I should have exchanged numbers with Florian, or at least asked where his parents lived.

\--No, I think you have managed to hook two members of that band. So which one do you want?--

\--Don't be stupid. I only want Flori.--

\--I think you are getting both, whether you want to or not. Joined at the hip, those two. You take the one, you get the other.--

Brushing Klaus's tobacco crumbs and grubbiness from off my bed so I could lie down, I thought about it. Was I really prepared to put up with that insinuating, arrogant puppy-dog, Ralf Hütter, if that was the price to pay for Flori's company? Well, I supposed I was. Making a mental note to be nicer to him in programming class, I drifted off to sleep, and found that the remnants of blue and gold numbers were still faintly flowing across the inside of my eyelids. I had almost forgotten the crucial adjustments I needed to make to my code, so I leapt from my bed to my desk, and scribbled them down so I didn't forget them, then fell almost instantly asleep.


	5. Hochhaus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the computer lab, Ralf decides to enlighten Jan all about her shiny new friend. The girls, however, find this a most interesting source of gossip.

Myrthe and I slept late the next morning, and ate a leisurely breakfast at our favourite cafe, but the idea for my programming code would not leave me alone, so I sloped back to our room to pick up my bag full of notes, and made my way to the Engineering School to see if I could beg some weekend time on the Mainframe.

Unfortunately, I was not alone. When I got to the end of the hall, I could already hear the Schubert. Really, I should have just turned around and gone home, but perhaps I was stupidly hoping that he could bring me news of Florian. So I let myself in, and turned down the record player so I could hear myself think.

Ralf turned around when he heard the music's volume drop, and his face lit up in a goofy smile for a moment, before a sheepish and slightly guilty expression crept across his face. "I am surprised you made it in with a terrible hangover," he observed, moving the chair so that his broad shoulders were between me and the computer monitor.

"It's not so bad. Breakfast, and good strong Turkish coffee helped. Speaking of Turkish obsessions, how is Florian?" I hoped my blush didn't show all over my face.

"Florian does not get hangovers," Ralf smirked. "But he has gone off to the market today to go and buy a Ney - you know, a Turkish flute? He is obsessed."

"That sounds like typical Flori." 

Ralf glared at me, as if he was jealous I had dominated his friend all night. "And how would you know what typical Flori is? You have known him only one day."

"It's long enough." I moved to dump my bag next to the tape cabinet, and Ralf moved his whole chair to follow me, still keeping his body between me and the computer screen. I don't know why, but it made me suspicious. "What are you working on?" I asked casually, trying to peer over his shoulders.

"Oh, nothing." He moved again, blocking me, so I grabbed the arms of his chair and pushed him, mock-playfully, out of the way. And then I saw the code on the computer screen. _My_ code. Ralf had somehow got a copy of my code. I had dumped it from the memory before I handed the workstation over. I knew I had. "That's my code," I accused, stabbing a finger at the screen.

"Listen, calm down, Chan, it is not what you think..."

"Never mind what I think, what are you doing with my code?"

"I am studying it. Your programming skills are so much more advanced than mine are, and I thought..."

"Nice try with the flattery, but no. How the hell did you get a copy of my code?"

"Calm down! Do not be angry with me! I was trying to do you a favour, I had extra space on my tape, so I saved it for you."

"You couldn't. I deleted it after I made the print-out. How did you get a copy of my code?" I was beginning to get really angry, like nothing in the world made me quite as angry as being told to calm down.

"I did the rollback, OK?" Ralf finally confessed. "The University's system uses default rollback on everything to stop the students from destroying crucial files or messing up the operating system. I do rollback, and up comes your codes. But only for the schtudying, I zwear! I haff not touch vonne line!" He accent seemed to grow almost impenetrable as he grew emotional.

My head felt like it was spinning. I had no idea if I could trust him or not. What if it had been innocent, what if he did just want to save me the hassle of typing it all in again? But no. The rollback thing, he had deliberately brought back up something I had tried to delete. But what on earth would he do with my broken code? He could not even understand COBOL. So if I couldn't fix it before Florian had accidentally handed me the answer, he certainly couldn't have got it running. But the underhandedness of it, the way he'd tried to hide his theft, that bothered me.

Realising I was properly angry with him, Ralf stood up and let me take the seat, as I tabbed through the code to make sure he hadn't messed about with anything. No, it was exactly as I had left it, errors and all. I relaxed slightly, though I still didn't want to make the crucial modifications with him staring over my shoulder.

"Look, Chan," he broached, with that jaunty confidence that made me want to smash the glasses off his face. "We are having a bit of a jam session this Friday night. Michael said he would drop by, and play with us for a bit. And a few of our friends are coming up from Köln to exchange musical improvisational ideas. If you - and Myrthe of course - wanted to come, we would be happy to see you."

"Will Florian be there?" I asked, without even looking at him.

"Of course Florian will be there; the party is at house of Florian's parents!" he urged, and that was all I had needed to hear. "His father is out of town on business, his mother shopping for the weekend - in Paris. It is nice house, very beautiful, up in Golzheim, just by the river." He paused, as I continued to parse through my code. "There is a swimming pool down in the garden, we often have a bit of a party after we play... Come! It will be fun."

I turned slowly in my chair, to face him. Shopping trips in Paris? Swimming pools? An exclusive suburb in the North of Düsseldorf? Those things took serious money, not the kind of money that scruffy layabouts like Power Station had lying around. "Just what kind of family does Florian come from?"

Ralf almost beamed with pride, inflating his chest as he beckoned to me. "Come. I will show you."

Cautiously, I got up and followed him as we walked out to the stairs, but instead of leaving the building via the fire escape, he turned and lead me up, towards the roof. It was a beautiful day, without a cloud in the deep blue sky, and we could see for miles, down where the folds of the Rhine lay like rumpled velvet against the landscape.

"There," directed Ralf, and I followed his pointing finger to see the silver phallus of a shiny steel and glass building piercing the skyline of the city. "The Mannesman Hochhaus. That is Schneider-Esleben. That is Florian's family."

"I don't understand," I stuttered. "I thought they lived up in Golzheim."

"They do not live in it," said Ralf slowly and carefully, as if I were an idiot for not understanding his cryptic explanations. "Florian's father _built_ it." Taking me by the shoulders, he turned me and pointed out in the opposite direction, down towards Köln, where an enormous concrete slab was taking shape in the far-off distance, a dark scar against the pale green of the countryside. "And he is building that. The new airport for Köln."

I felt so puzzled I wondered if I was having some kind of delayed response to my hangover, but it was just the sunlight, warm against my scalp through my short hair. "He is an engineer?"

"Paul Schneider von Esleben. This name means nothing to you?" Ralf demanded. I shook my head. "He is only the most famous architect in all of West Germany..."

"I'm sorry. I don't know much about architecture," I apologised. "I'm a design student, I only do textiles..."

"I am studying for the Architecture certification, this is why I learn Engineering," Ralf informed me, with a slightly domineering edge to his voice. "This man's work is a living textbook, it is a _honour_ to be acquainted with the family."

I cringed as he pronounced the word with an exaggerated H that no native English speaker would have tried, and blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. "If you are an architecture student, what are you doing in a computing class?"

Ralf turned slightly red and tried to shrug it off. "People use computers more and more to make design calculations for buildings, for the engineering of structures..." His voice trailed off as if giving up mid-way through the lie. "OK, no. I am like you. I bluff my way into the course because I want to use the computer to compose sounds. It was Florian's idea, really." This was not an excuse; he seemed proud of his friend - or at least, his famous family.

"Florian, I suppose, the last thing he wants to study is architecture," I sighed, turning my head to look at the giant Hochhaus piercing the sun. Imagine having to live in the shadow of all that. I certainly knew all about living in the shadow of a colossus of a father, who had practically invented a field I was simultaneously drawn to and repelled by.

"No. Florian is an architect of Sound. Not of commerce-bank headquarters." This with a faint smile as he turned towards me, his little mouth crinkling up at the corners. Even his smile seemed slightly haughty, not open and generous like Florian's grin. But at that moment, I realised that he had neglected to take his hand from my shoulder, where he had turned me around to watch the airport construction, and that he was trying to pull me closer as if for an embrace.

And I noticed for the first time that he was slightly shorter than me, even though I was wearing flats. I did not like short men, they always made me feel like a giant clumsy oaf. Worse yet, behind his big, round spectacles, his eyes were narrowing, getting an odd misty look. Deep-set and slightly slanted, with rims of flesh beneath, his eyes were a sort of watery colour, like the dark greyish blue of the polluted air over the Rhine when the air from factories was blowing downriver from Köln. I did not like the way those eyes were looking at me, so I pulled away sharply, and headed towards the door to the stairs. Caught off balance, Ralf stumbled slightly, and had to move quickly to correct.

"Come on, we are wasting valuable processing time," I called back, and made my exit as quickly as possible.

Before I left that evening, I had somehow agreed to attend Ralf's party - well, really, as if there were any question that I might not attend an event at which Florian would be present. Not only that, but I had been pressed into recruiting my friends, too.

"And feel free to invite your friends from the Kunstakademie," Ralf offered, portentously.

"You already know my friends from the Kunstakademie - I met your band through Emil and Michael..."

Ralf shook his head quickly. "No, your friends from the textiles department. Your pretty, well-dressed friends."

For a moment, I wondered what on earth he meant, but then it clicked. "Oh," I said. "You mean, bring _girls_."

At that, Ralf smiled broadly. "Yes. You see the problem we are having. Please to bring girls."

Now raising this was a problem. Not that I thought my friends would have any problem attending a party at a glamourous house with a swimming pool, especially as they had all enjoyed Power Station at the club. The problem was how to ask. I mentioned it to Myrthe, who was, as expected, excited at the prospect, but when I suggested to her that she invite the girls from our class, she looked at me very severely.

\--Jan-- she said to me, in that voice that usually meant that she was going to criticise me for studying too hard or being too boring. --They are your friends, too. _You_ need to invite them.--

\--Why!-- I protested.

\--You need to learn how to invite people to things. You need to learn how to initiate conversations, instead of relying on me all of the time. People are starting to think you are unfriendly.--

_Unfriendly_. It was the worst insult a Dutch person could utter. I felt horrified at the thought. But I _was_ friendly, I thought. I had yet to slap the irritating and arrogant young Hütter, for a start. I was polite to everybody; I responded nicely when people spoke to me; I tried to show an interest in everyone's work. --It's not my fault. My German isn't very good-- I mumbled apologetically.

\--Your German is fine. I think you use your German as an excuse, if you ask me.--

\--But... but... I... I am not so good at talking.-- I confessed. --Do you think I would I be a visual artist if I were any good at talking?--

Myrthe looked at me severely. --You are perfectly capable of talking to that Florian Schneider-Esleben, for an hour at a time! I am not accusing you, I am just repeating what people have been saying. They say it is unfriendly.--

I wanted to say that this was because Florian asked questions about interesting things, about computers, and engines, and cessna propellors, instead of yammering on about boys and their penises, but I knew this would _definitely_ be unfriendly to raise. So instead, I withdrew, and sulked for a few hours, pondering this new information that I was considered unfriendly, and thought long and hard about what to do. Had I been thought unfriendly in London? No; people had told me I was mysterious, Valerie's silent friend with the long white hair. Well. Perhaps now I had lost the veil of the long white hair, it was time to do something about the silence as well.

I didn't ask in class; that would be bad form. I waited until the workshop afterwards, when we all went upstairs to sit in loose groups, sewing or weaving or working on designs.

>>So!<< I announced brightly, taking my heart in my hands as I waited for a lull in the endless burbling conversation that never seemed to come. Silke and the other two girls at the table stopped talking immediately, and gaped at me, as I wondered if I'd got the volume of my voice wrong. >>We all enjoyed the Power Plant exhibition the other night, yes?<<

The other girls smirked, then started to giggle. >> _Concert_ << said Myrthe quietly behind me, and I cursed my poor command of spoken German.

>>I am sorry; I am learner still<< I said, feeling my face start to flush.

Silke raised her eyebrows at me. >>Well, obviously _some_ of us enjoyed the concert more than others << she said, and nudged her companion.

>>Did I miss something at the gig?<< asked Greta, who had not been at the club due to a bad cold.

>>Only the sight of somebody doing the...<< and here was a complicated sounding German word I had never heard before >>...with Florian before the gig.<<

>>What?<< shrieked Greta. >>With _Florian_? Florian Schneider-Esleben? <<

>>The very same<< Silke nodded decisively and added a wink.

>>There was no such thing<< I huffed indignant. >>I never...<< I made a run at the complicated German word and ended up sounding like I was clearly my throat. >>...BOOM-sing with Flori. You are telling _pork-pies_ , Silke.<<

>>No, it is true<< insisted Silke. >>We saw them. _Bumsen_. She walked into the club, walked straight up to him like a bee heading for a flower, danced with him, and then I look over, and he is kissing her hands! <<

>>Florian was?<< interjected the girl whose name I did not yet know.

>>He never did!<< I protested.

>>What were you doing then?<< Silke demanded.

>>He was sucking my...<< In the half a minute that I held up my hand, trying to remember the word for "finger" the girls exploded into laughter. >>My finger, he was sucking my finger! You girls are filthy!<<

>>You let Florian Schneider-Esleben suck your fingers, and you say it is us that are filthy? Anni, I cannot breathe this is so funny<< gasped Greta, waving her hand in front of her face like a fan.

>>Listen!<< I shouted, beginning to get really flustered. >>Do you want to go to the party or not?<<

>>Party? What party?<<

I wasn't even sure I wanted to invite them, now that they were all being so cruel to me, but I had promised Ralf. >>Power Station are having a party at Florian's house on Friday. His parents are out of town. So they asked me to invite some of my friends from the school.<<

>>I wouldn't miss it for the world<< said Greta, and elbowed Anni.

I looked down at my loom and frowned, wondering if it was really worth all of this humiliation simply in order not to be seen as "unfriendly". My face flushed red, and I could feel tears welling in my eyes, though I tried not to let them show.

>>Jan?<< said Silke, the laughter dropping out of her voice. She pronounced my name in the German way, like "Yon", which only served to make me more upset. Hot water fell from my eye onto the piece of linen below. >>Oh, Jan, please. Don't cry.<< Suddenly she was on her feet, moving round to the other side of the table to sit next to me, putting her arm around her shoulder and squeezing gently. >>We are just teasing. I really am very happy for you... just surprised, that's all. Florian is... well, he's odd.<<

>>He does not seem odd to me<< I protested meekly, but what did I know?

Anni reached across the table and patted my hand. >>No, really. I went to school with his sister. I've known him since he was a teenager. He _is_ odd - very odd, trust me. I mean, he doesn't even _talk_ for a start. <<

>>But he does talk<< I protested, to astonished stares, as my voice turned to a mumble. >>Well. He talks to me...<<

>>This is true. He talked to her for an hour<< Myrthe backed me up. >>Under a table, this is true, but I definitely heard him speaking.<<

Anni and Myrthe exchanged another look I could not quite read. >>He is an odd, odd young man<< she repeated. >>But he is a complete gentleman. He really is a decent fellow, I promise.<<


	6. Cool In The Pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan and her friends go to a pool party at the Schneider-Esleben house, while Florian's parents are away. Ralf makes rather an ass of himself in a little international miscommunication! But Florian, unfortunately, seems oddly, well... cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For THAT ONE GUY who cannot leave this alone and is still creepily hassling me about it over six months later...
> 
> ***contains minor spoilers for this chapter***
> 
> The scene at the swimming pool, and Ralf's behaviour there is directly based almost entirely on this anecdote from Wolfgang Flür's autobiography:
> 
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> 
>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> This scene is based on CANON. Flür was in the band for 14 years. I think he knows Ralf and his awkwardness with women a little better than Some Random Dude from Tumblr. Hütter took Flür to court over some of the assertions in the book, but this is not one of the incidents that was ever disputed. I am simply not interested in so-called 'criticism' that comes down to 'I do not know basic canonical facts about the fandom'.
> 
> ***here endeth the mild spoilers***

And somehow, after that afternoon, as if it had been a trial by fire, we all were friends. By ones and twos, the other girls from my class started to drop by my dorm room with coffee and cake, or a bottle of wine in the evening, or the invitation to go to lunch or come out shopping. And shopping was very necessary, as I had not seen fit to bring a bathing costume to Germany! Silke took me out to the Kö, the main shopping district of Düsseldorf, to a big, glittering department store, and helped me to select a stylish garment which I hoped displayed my inadequate curves to their best advantage.

So on Friday, the six of us - me, Myrthe, Silke, Greta, Anni, and Silke's roommate Freda - put on our party clothes and took the train north. I had to admit, Florian's parents' neighbourhood was more than a little daunting. Six young women in our hippie finery, all walking along the street, carrying bottles of wine and staring up at the palatial houses, we must have looked more than a little out of place. I was very glad of the company, as I would not have had the courage to go through with it on my own.

Anni led the way, as she had at least been there before, and led the way up the path to ring the front doorbell. It was a beautiful house, that was certain, though it was huge, three stories at least. It was hard to tell where each floor begun and ended, as many of the walls had been ripped out and replaced with rippling plates of glass, green and shiny and slightly polarised so that the occupants could see out, but prying strangers could not see in. Remembering what Ralf had said about Florian's parents, I wondered if his father had designed it.

No one came to the door, so Anni rang again, leaning on the doorbell hard. After a few minutes, we heard footsteps, and the door swung open revealing not, as I had hoped, Florian, but a woman in a stiff black uniform like a servant. >>I'm sorry, I'm sorry. The boys are making such a racket I did not hear you. Please... let me take your coats. Would you like a drink?<<

I felt more than slightly intimidated, and did not want to part with my light velvet jacket, as I had bought it in a charity shop, and hastily patched up a very noticeable hole in the lining. >>We've brought wine<< I stuttered, though I now felt quite, quite inadequate about our cheap plonk that had cost only a few DM for the lot.

>>Through this way... though I'm sure you can tell where they are from the racket<< moaned the housekeeper as she lead us through a huge, plant-filled atrium and up a wide, curving flight of stairs. Honestly, the house was like a palace! We crossed a spacious reception area, where I noticed food and drink and glasses had been spread out on a table, then she waved us through into another large, high-ceilinged room like a church hall. Inside the air was already thick, with smoke and marijuana, the lights turned to low, as groups of young men sat hunched in clusters around their various musical instruments.

There were two drummers: Klaus at one end, still flailing about like a madman, still wearing sunglasses perched on his long nose, even though it was fairly gloomy in the room with all the curtains drawn; and another man I didn't recognise beating intently on a set of congas. Next to Klaus sat Michael, his hair in his face as always, strumming a driving rhythm on an electric guitar. Opposite Michael was Ralf, hunched over his organ like Ray Manzarak, rocking gently back and forth to the beat, his long hair flopping in his face. Facing them were two strangers - these must be the friends from Köln. One of them seemed to be playing, well... metal _boxes_. Honestly, if the pile of strange electronic devices covered in knobs and dials on top of Ralf's organ looked esoteric, this man seemed to be creating unearthly warbling and burbling sounds from piles of nothing but knobs and dials, with the occasional piano keyboard sticking out. There was a bassist, too, a short, rather round-faced man with long, wild black hair and a drooping walrus moustache. And in the centre of this joyful, shimmering, pulsating maelstrom of sound, stood Florian, flute to his lips, weaving back and forth unsteadily on his feet like a blade of long grass in a thunderstorm.

We stood for quite a few minutes, just watching and listening and dancing slightly as we got the bottles of wine open. Anni dashed out to fetch glasses from the reception hall, though I had been planning on drinking straight from the bottles, and the slam of the door behind her must have distracted Ralf, because abruptly he looked up and broke his concentration. His face broke into a grin as he stopped playing, climbed off his piano stool and trotted over to us to greet us, pushing his greasy rag of hair out of his face. There was no point in even speaking, the music was so loud, but he gestured for us to eat and drink.

Finally, one by one, the musicians, noticing the interruption, stopped playing and peeled off to come and greet us, or descend like a swarm of flies on the buffet. Until finally, only Florian was left in the centre of the circle of gear, his eyes closed, a blissful expression on his face as he coaxed heavenly melodies with strange Turkish intonation, wafting from the tip of his flute up into the smoky rafters of the building towards heaven. There was an echo on the microphone, so he seemed to be playing an odd game of chase with his own notes. But finally, he, too, seemed to notice that he was playing alone, and lowered the flute, turning around to see me standing leaning against the towering block of synthesisers.

Although he grinned, broadly, when he saw me, he raised his arms and gestured around him, sounding ever so slightly bereft. >>My band!<< he exclaimed. >>I have been abandoned!<<

>>The food arrived<< I told him. >>And the girls.<<

>>Sometimes I get so caught up in music, I forget to eat<< he confessed.

I laughed a little, and nodded. >>And me, as well, when I am weaving. I get into a rhythm, and forget it. Hours can go by.<<

As he put down his flute and walked towards me, I expected... I don't know. Some kind of physical acknowledgement. Not that I needed, or even wanted, flowers and a huge display of romance, but some kind of kiss or a cuddle or even a touch would have been reassuring. But he just looked at me slightly sadly, his head cocked to one side as he studied me.

>>What is it?<< I asked, worried that he no longer liked me now that he was not on Klaus's reality-shifting LSD.

>>Nothing. You look nice, that's all.<< He shrugged jauntily and started to head off. >>Now we must find Ralf.<<

It was hard not to feel piqued as I followed him outside. But I knew that was the deal, right? Ralf and Florian, joined at the hip. I would never get one without the other.

Outside, the musicians were eating with all the delicacy of a pack of hyaenas. Ralf was scooping up toothpicks laden with pineapple and cheese with his hands and cramming them into his face with the voracity of a starving man. They all were; even before I caught the pungent smoke of the joint that was sharpening their appetites.

Freda, who was not that into music, as she cared more about fashion, was short and to the point. >>I don't want to eat if we're going to swim. They told me you had a pool?<<

>>Yes, we have a very fine swimming pool, downstairs<< Florian assured her.

>>Where do we change?<< Freda demanded.

>>We can go skinny dipping<< Ralf suggested with a raised eyebrow and a leer.

"No!" I protested. >>You promised exhibi... _concert_ , and I want hearing concert.<< Whenever I was flustered - and Ralf seemed to fluster me quite a lot - my German grammar just went to shit.

"Alright, you shall have your concert," Ralf agreed.

>>Maybe we can do both?<< Florian suggested. Moving back through into the hall, he walked to the heavily curtained end, and tugged at the fabric, revealing huge picture windows that looked out onto a balcony, and down into the garden, half roofed over in glass that caught the sun and warmed the enormous blue swimming pool below. >>If we open all the windows, some of us can play on the balcony, and the girls can swim downstairs. Imagine listening to our music, while floating... I wish I could play while floating... Do you think water will short out the electronics of my flute?<<

Ralf moved up beside me. "He says that we are going to open the windows, and play on the balcony, so you can swim downstairs and listen to us at the same time," he repeated, this time in English. I looked at him oddly. What, did he think I was deaf? Or was this just more of his irritating and slightly arrogant habit of explaining things to me that I already knew, and did not need to hear again from him?

"OK, but where do we change?"

Florian lead us upstairs, the gracious host, and opened another door, peering around inside before admitting us. >>My mother's bedroom. I hope it will satisfy.<<

>>Are you sure she's not coming home?<< I hissed, feeling odd about using a stranger's room to disrobe.

>>She's gone to Paris. She'll be all week, if Evamaria has her way. Which she always does.<< He smiled, bowed stiffly, then closed the door behind him, leaving the six of us staring about the palatial boudoir. It was a simply colossal space, easily the size of 4 or 5 of our dorm rooms all run together, and carpeted from one end to the other with thick white shag carpet. The furniture was all modern, and beautifully designed, but the overall effect was elegant and classic, like a minimalist version of a room from Versailles. Someone in his family had exquisite taste - though it certainly wasn't Florian, with his shaggy sideburns and those floppy peasant shirts in floral patterns.

We girls crowded round the make-up table with its bed-sized mirror, giggling and checking our hair; then one by one, turned and slipped off our clothes to reveal the bathing costumes beneath. I folded my clothes carefully, and placed them inside my carpet bag, piling everything at the side of the bed. When we were all ready, we trooped outside to find that someone had left six giant fluffy white towels piled in the hall by the door. So Anni was right; Florian was indeed a gentleman.

As we padded downstairs in our bare feet, I demurely wrapped my towel around my waist so we didn't make quite so much of a parade of ourselves, as we had to weave our way through the musicians out to the balcony and down to the pool. Silke and Greta did not bother, and got quite a few wolf whistles, though Florian glared at the culprits. Michael and the conga player had already moved their instruments out to the balcony, and Florian soon joined them, and they looked so happy and contented playing in the open air that I felt sorry for the less mobile instruments stuck inside the hall. The sun was sinking, and the colour of the sky was deepening above our heads, but it was still pleasantly warm, and dipping my toe into the tepid water of the pool felt like a welcome relief.

Freda dove straight in, and started to swim laps, but Silke and Myrthe found inflatable lilos to lie on and preserve their immaculate hair. The rest of us made our way in slowly, down the steps, letting our bodies adjust to the temperature of the water. Closing my eyes, I felt the water lapping against my thighs, and heard the gentle throb of the music lapping against my ears. It was almost too much, too pleasurable, the sound and the sensation all at once, and I had to hug myself to bring myself back down to earth. 

What had happened to our bottles of wine? I had to be slightly drunk to cope with all this. Climbing out of the pool again, I walked around until I found a bottle of wine that looked like mine (one of the cheap ones, anyway) and bent down to help myself to a swig. When I looked up again, Ralf had come out onto the balcony - he had the bass now and was playing a rather funky groove - and was staring down at me with a weird expression. Emboldened by the wine, I stuck my tongue out at him rudely, then turned around and jumped back into the pool. The water closed over my head and the sound went all echoey and even more beautiful, Florian's flute seeming to shimmer out like the reflections of light from my splash rippling across the bottom of the pool.

More people arrived, not just musicians, but serious-looking friends of the band, art students with their long hair and patched jeans, as well as more distinguished looking classical music types who said they knew Florian from the Schumann Conservatory. So Florian was a proper, classically trained musician? No wonder his flute-playing was so beautiful. Some of them came in the pool with us, just stripping off their clothes as inhibitions were lowered with wine or drugs or music, and I was slightly worried that, well, the tone of the evening might degenerate. Emil arrived, and immediately tore off all his clothes and jumped in, followed by a friend, and soon the pair of them had persuaded a couple of the bolder art school girls to shed their bathing costumes. Silke, naked, was just like a slippery eel! But mostly the musicians hung about smoking and listening to the music.

As the hour grew later, the music tapered off, but I was still floating, slightly high from all of the smoke around me. That I didn't mind so much, it just felt nice and fuzzy and indistinct. I hadn't managed to talk to Florian at all, but that didn't bother me, either. It was OK just looking up to the balcony and knowing that he was nearby. But this time, when I looked, he wasn't playing, he was standing, leaning over the railing, talking softly with Ralf, and both of them were looking down at me.

I had always had exceptionally sensitive hearing - loud noises startle me terribly, and even quiet music can completely distract me. But Ralf was making no effort at all to keep his voice quiet. And after a few minutes of doubt, I realised with a start that they were talking about me.

>>God, she is so sexy, just look at her lying down there in the water. I wish she were less of a repressed English girl, and would take all her clothes off like the other girls have. I bet she's luscious. You didn't see her when she had long hair, Flori, she was just like a Rhinemaiden, and I can only imagine how much more beautiful she would look with her long, ice-coloured hair all spread over her breasts in the water. A man could wreck himself on a woman like that.<<

Florian said something in reply, but his voice was too low to hear. My head spun between outrage - how dare Ralf talk about me like that! - and curiosity, not to mention good old fashioned pride, half-hoping that Florian was saying even more complimentary things about me in his low, melodic voice.

>>Look at her thighs, so long and lean. She cycles, you know<< continued Ralf. >>She must have powerful thighs to race so fast, back and forth between the Kunstakadamie and the Engineering School. Imagine those thighs wrapped around your neck! I tell you, Flori, with good lean thighs like that, I was shocked when she turned around to pick up her wine and showed her fantastic rear end, I swear to god it was like a ripe peach. No, not even a ripe peach. Like two halves of a succulent melon, I just wanted to put my face between and taste her juices, good god can you imagine what it would be like to penetrate her...<<

I had heard enough, my face burning with shame. Dipping my body below the water, I tucked my legs up under me, and wrapped my arms about my knees, feeling as though there were not enough water in all of Germany to cover my shameful rear end. For a long minute, I did not know what to do, my head swirling with anger and shame as my emotions built to a crescendo.

But then I splashed my way to the steps, seized my towel from the railing, wrapped it around my waist and stomped my way through the gathering crowd, up the concrete steps to the balcony. I walked straight past Ralf, who was trying to get my attention, and out through the rehearsal space into the reception hall. Yes, there it was, just as I remembered, in the bowl of fruit. A nice, ripe, succulent and juicy slice of fresh watermelon. Ralf was wearing a white cotton jumper, and a pair of cream coloured leather trousers tonight, so I hoped to god the fruit stained.

Walking back out to the balcony, I confronted Ralf in such a cold fury that my German poured out in a torrent. >>You know, my German might not be so hot to speak, but I can understand every word you say _perfectly_ you dirty little... something-or-other. Here! If you want it so much, come and taste my melon! << And with that, I raised the dripping slice of watermelon, and mashed it straight into the centre of his ugly yapping face, where it split slightly and caused little rivulets of bright pink juice to go running down his expensive-looking cotton jumper and his preposterous cream-coloured trousers.

Florian, shocked at first, looked back and forth between us, first at my outraged face, then at Ralf's ruined clothes and fruit-covered face, than back at my face, clearly struggling to contain the mirth that was spreading across his wide mouth. >>Ralf, my friend<< he said very quietly. >>You know you are like a brother to me, but you deserved that.<<

Ralf said nothing. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then tried to lick the fruit off his upper lip. I waited for an apology, but none was forthcoming. My anger had boiled off, and I was starting to feel very, very flustered, feeling dozens of eyes upon me, so in a moment of panic, I turned and fled the room. I propelled myself through the deserted rehearsal space and out into the hall, trying to remember how to get back to the main stairs leading up to the boudoir. I could find stairs going down, but none going up, as I struggled to retrace my steps.

But as I got to the edge of the steps, I froze and let out a small cry of surprise. Because as I was making my way down the steps, a very tall, very elegant, very beautiful and very blonde lady was making her way up.


	7. Mother-Kraftwerk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf and Florian's pool party is interrupted by the sudden reappearance of Florian's parents... who turn out to be even more eccentric than their son! But Jan is hearing all kinds of conflicting gossip about her new friends, and doesn't quite know who to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to repeat, yet again, that this is a complete work of fiction. Although some scenes may have been inspired by real-life events described in books by various ex-members of Kraftwerk, the details are completely imaginary, and in no way intended to depict real persons.

The new, elegant blonde woman making her way up the stairs was exquisitely dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, a fur stole draped around her swan-like neck despite the warmth of the evening. But as she fixed me with a pair of extremely pale blue eyes, all fringed with blonde lashes, they reminded me intensely of another pair of pale blue eyes I had only recently gazed into. All at once, there was no doubt in my mind as to who she was.

She looked straight back at me with equal surprise, but she recovered herself more quickly than I. In her place, I would have screamed the house down to find an intruder in my reception hall, but she smiled at me graciously. >>My child, you are sopping wet! You must dry yourself and get dressed or you will catch your death of cold.<<

I just stared at her, completely mute, suddenly remembering that my clothes were folded and carefully placed in a bag directly at the foot of her bed. How on earth was I supposed to tell her that?

But I was saved by a blast of feedback, followed by a sinuous strand of flute-playing echoing down the hall. The grand lady's head pricked to one side, a completely familiar gesture, and her face split in a delighted grin. It was obvious where Florian got both his looks and his delicate, birdlike gestures from. >>Ah, my boys! What a wonderful surprise! Paul, it looks like we may get our dance after all.<<

I looked behind her, and there was a tall, angry-looking man dragging a large black presentation case up the stairs. >>Wretched Red Army<< he muttered to no one in particular. >>Anarchists and radicals, why don't they ever do something useful, like help rebuild Germany for a change, instead of planting wretched bomb threats on important bridges. How are we ever supposed to get to Paris with a bomb threat on the roads?<< When he reached the top of the stairs, he dumped the presentation case against a closed door, then headed over to the table of refreshments. >>Do either of you women want a drink? I see Flori has been at my scotch again. Why doesn't that wretched son of mine get a proper job and buy his own Scotch, huh?<<

>>Paul, he has a job; he is a very well respected musician<< the woman scolded, then turned to me. >>You don't want a Scotch, do you, you mute little mouse. Let's have some champagne if there's a party tonight. Gertrude?<< she shouted for the housekeeper, who came bobbing out again. >>Pink champagne, and two glasses, I think this waif needs some sustenance, look, she's shaking with hunger. Or perhaps fright? Are we frightening you, child?<<

>>I'm sorry<< I said quickly. >>I am Jan. I know Flori from school... well, I know Ralf from school, obviously, and Flori I met...<<

She waved away my explanation. >>Of course you do. Everyone knows my Flori! But this is Herr Professor Schneider von Esleben and I, of course, am Evamaria, though my boys all call me Mother-Kraftwerk. Where are the boys? Follow the noise, of course. I am _dying_ for a cigarette... <<

She swept me up in her glamourous slipstream as she glided through into the rehearsal space, where she clutched Florian to her chest, kissed her son on both cheeks, then repeated the process with Michael, who looked completely confused and a little bit overwhelmed. But when she saw Ralf, his face towelled off, but his shirt and trousers still bright pink, she pulled back.

>>What on earth has happened to you, _Mad Hatter_? <<

Ralf's face flushed as pink as his shirt, but he remained silent, as Florian flashed a grin at him, then enigmatically explained >>Girl trouble.<<

>>For gods sake, don't sit around in dirty clothes. Go and put on one of Florian's clean shirts, you know where his room is<< she scolded, and he fled, but as soon as he was out of the room, she turned to me. >>Mustn't judge. The poor boy had such a déclassé upbringing, it's not his fault he has no manners at all. Nouveau Riche, those Hütters. Son of a textile tradesman of all things, you know. Ghastly people. Flori is so good to take him under his wing, aren't you Flori.<<

I threw a disbelieving look with Florian, who merely shrugged and looked blank, as if completely unaware of how utterly bizarre his own family was.

But Evamaria had already wandered over to the bass-player, who was trying to surreptitiously palm his joint. >>Light me a cigarette, Holger. I'm absolutely dying for a smoke.<<

The bassist wriggled and sort of twisted himself around in his effort not to give the game away. Finally, he conceded >>I would, but, erm, Madame Schneider, they're, err, erm, well, they're... you see, they're _jazz_ cigarettes. <<

Evamaria's eyes lit up. >>Ooh, even better. Be a darling and light us one, there's a good boy.<< As I watched the bizarre spectacle of someone's mother taking a spliff off a jazz bassist, I tried to imagine my own mother's reaction. Marijuana was beyond the pale, as far as she was concerned - it was the stuff that old African men sat by the side of the kraal smoking until their eyes went glazed, and nothing that _civilised_ people should ever touch. But Florian's mother took a deep breath, then wandered out onto the balcony.  >>What a simply marvellous party! Oh, Flori, what a wonderful surprise to come home to. Go on, give us a tune. I want to dance! Oh, there's that poet again, Paul, do come and mingle...<<

As she floated out into the night, Florian shook his head, raised his flute to his lips and tried to catch Michael's attention to pick up the song again. But as Michael caught the key and started to fingerpick along, Paul came storming into the room, his face like a stormcloud. But the sight of gentle little Michael, with his nearly waist-length hair, seemed to enrage him even further.

>>Fucking Red Army Faction<< he continued to rant into his Scotch. >>All this Baader-Meinhoff nonsense and anarchism, little boys playing at being radicals. It seems National Service isn't even good enough for you lot. Bring back the Wandervogel, install some discipline, install some good German ideals into you lot, instead of this playing at revolutionaries nonsense.<<

But Michael, who I had never heard raise his voice above a whisper, let alone get angry, seemed to be getting hot under the collar. >>I have a lot of sympathy for the Red Army Faction, you know<< he said, quietly at first, but growing more animated as he warmed to his topic, with the same determination he had faced Klaus down, over the van. >>Your generation, the Wandervogel, that all became Nazi Youth, and look where that got us. Sometimes I really think Andreas Baader has the right idea. Make a clean break with the past, sweep all of it aside. Too many of the old guard of Nazis, too many people who held power in the old regime are clogging up the new. It's all got to go, all that war-mongering Nazi generation.<<

I had never seen anyone lose his temper quite like Schneider von Esleben exploded at that moment, and it made me wonder what depths lurked under Florian's relaxed facade. >>Nazi Youth? What the fuck do you know about Nazi Youth, young man? You wouldn't have had the balls to object to it, Rother, you and your girly hair and your women's boots, they'd have beaten that out of you in a heartbeat. You wouldn't have stood up to Nazis. All of you, you say you'd have been Conscientious Objectors...<<

>>I _am_ a conscientious objector << insisted Michael. >>I wouldn't do my National Service in the army.<<

>>What, because it's fashionable now? I see how you lot fall in line to the peer pressure of your little hippie friends, how you talk about 'Peace' but support the Red Army. An army of _sheep_ , you are. Not an independent thinker among you, Andreas Baader included. My generation are expending our very blood, sweat and tears to rebuild a modern Germany, to make it safe for you lot to just... to just sit on your airy-fairy arses and make... _experimental_ music. Absolute load of horse manure! You wouldn't have lasted half an hour up against the Nazi Youth, Rother, and don't forget it. Now Flori, where's your blasted mother got to... <<

I stood, shocked into silence as Michael and Florian exchanged glances, with Florian half-shrugging apologetically, as his bird-like head twitched with embarrassment. >>He really was going to Paris for the weekend<< he offered lamely.

>>Wealthy men always think they can throw their power and their prestige around<< said Michael very quietly, though he had put his guitar down, and was actually starting to pack up. >>He's just a nasty old man who's bitter because he can't control his wife.<< Scrounging around, he tossed guitar cables and a couple of picks into his case. >>Like he always wants to control you, Flori.<<

Florian bit his lip carefully, but shrugged again. >>I am not so easy to control, you know.<< A thoughtful pause, as defiance struggled with loyalty. >>And he's not always like this. He's just under a lot of pressure with the design for the new Köln Airport. It's the biggest project he's ever worked on, so if he seems tense... well, he's under a lot of pressure just now.<<

Michael looked unimpressed. >>You know, you can come and live in our squat if you like. I know it's not as comfortable as all this, and our space isn't half the size of this house. But at least you'd be free, Flori. At least you'd be free.<<

>>I am more free than you will ever know, Michael<< Florian said softly. >>He's as hard as an old oak tree, but I'm like a reed. I may look like I'm flopping around and even lying flat, but we all know who lasts the storm in that old story.<<

>>Look, I'm going home, old man. I can't dig this scene.<< He turned to me. >>Give my regards to Myrthe, tell her I'll call maybe tomorrow.<<

But Florian was persistent. >>But will you come back to rehearsal next week? The band sounded great with the guitar tonight...<<

Michael looked torn as he stood in the door. >>I don't know, Florian, I don't know. Spirits of Sound are doing really well... Wolfgang wants to play out of town again, play Köln and Essen, maybe even go down and do some gigs in Bonn or even Frankfurt...<<

>>Bonn or Frankfurt<< snorted Florian, looking distinctly unimpressed, an expression that reminded me uncomfortably of his father. >>The problem with little Wolfgang is, he has no ambition whatsoever.<<

>>And you and Ralf do? With your wealthy fathers and your all expenses paid mansions?<< Michael's eyes flashed, and I began to realise that his gentle demeanour hid a fierce resolve.

>>You stay with little Wolfgang, and you will be playing shitty little clubs in Düsseldorf for the rest of your little lives. You want to go on television, you want to tour all of Germany, you come and play with Ralf and me, yes?<<

At that moment, Ralf walked back in, looking slightly less ridiculous in a rolled-up pair of Florian's slacks and a crisp button-down shirt. >>Are you going already, Michael? We wanted to play with you some more, get some idea of how you and Klaus would fit together musically.<<

I took Ralf's reappearance as a cue for my disappearance, but now that the musical entertainment was over, the bassist from Köln had decided to liven things up in other ways. >>It's far too warm in this house!<< he announced. >>I want to get cool! In the pool!<< Kicking off his shoes, then removing his shirt, he jogged out and took a running jump off the balcony, sailing over the heads of the crowds before landing in a giant splash in the deep end of the pool.

In the noise and confusion, I slipped out to find Myrthe, confused by the events of the evening and wanting some reassurance. Maybe it was the party, maybe it was the sudden presence of his parents, but Florian seemed to have become so cold towards me. I found Myrthe lying together with Anni on a sun lounger next to the pool, and squeezed in beside them, helping myself to their wine.

>>Why aren't you with Florian<< Myrthe asked, prodding me. >>Go, go, you can talk to us at school any time. You are wasting your big chance.<<

>>I don't think he likes me<< I sighed.

>>He obviously does. He's just very shy<< said Anni, patting my knee affectionately.

>>He's not shy. He talks up a storm to Ralf. He talked to me after the last gig. He's just being funny with my tonight.<< Saying it aloud made it seem more true.

>>He is shy with women he likes. I told you, he doesn't talk. He was exactly the same, in Secondary School, his sisters said so. They could always tell which girl he was going to fall in love with, because he would clam up and refuse to talk to her.<<

>>Did he even have girlfriends in secondary school?<< It seemed bizarre to me, that German children apparently all went to school together, instead of being segregated out by sex, like we had done in Britain.

>>He had one, yes.<< Anni nodded. >>A friend of Claudia's and mine. And she was even more quiet than he was!<<

That completely surprised me, yet somehow reassured me that I did, actually stand a chance. >>And how did she snare him?<<

>>She got very drunk at a party in the forest during the summer holidays...<<

>>Party in the forest?<< I asked stupidly.

>>Oh, it is a German thing. On our holidays, many people go camping, hiking, swimming up in the forests. For teenagers, it can be sort of a rite of passage, the forest party. You go with all your friends, there is drinking around bonfires, and silly sorts of pagan rites. Many people use the forest-parties for an excuse to go a bit wild, couples pair off, there is even copulation in the open air sometimes.<<

>>Forest-party<< I mused. And here I had always thought of the Germans as so orderly, so repressed. It sounded like a wild version of a Gap Year.

>>Up in this forest, she dragged him off into the trees, and then she pounced.<<

>>Pounced?<< I asked, intrigued, looking up to the balcony to try to catch a glimpse of Florian, but he was hanging back, as Ralf and Klaus appeared to be having a small argument.

>> _Pounced_ << insisted Anni. >>They were together for the rest of school. He was a very good boyfriend, actually, she told us. He was very loyal, very devoted, if perhaps not so attentive as she might have liked.<<

>>What, did he look at other girls?<< I asked, worried.

>>No, no. He never looked at other girls. Florian is one of those people for whom there is only one person he loves, and he has need of no one else.<< I couldn't help but watch the way he was looking at Ralf as she said this. >>He was just... inattentive. He was and will always be more interested in machines than he is in people.<<

I was about to ask what kind of machines she meant, when we were interrupted by Emil, and his short, chubby friend Eberhard walking over to greet us very noisily. I tried quite hard not to notice that both of them were completely nude as they invited themselves into our conversation. They sat cross-legged on the ground opposite the sun-lounger where us girls were huddled together, both for warmth and for privacy.

>>Well done<< cried Eberhard, offering his hand for me to shake. I shook, without actually looking at him. >>I cannot believe how you put that arrogant twit, Ralf, in his place tonight! Many of us have been waiting for someone to do that for ages.<<

I did not feel proud; I felt, now, slightly shame-faced about the entire event. >>I am sorry. Is he still very angry?<<

>>No, I think it's good for him<< offered Emil diplomatically. >>People do not often stand up to Ralf. He can be very domineering.<<

>>I'll say<< grumbled Eberhard. >>I used to play bass with them, but that Hütter, he is just too much. I quit Power Station, very soon after Ralf joined, rather than deal with that overbearing control freak ever again. Good luck to Holger if he wants to take them on, but I don't think he's going to.<<

>>Holger will never leave Schmidt and Liebezeit. He only comes for the parties<< said Emil.

>>Holger just thinks Ralf is too much of an overbearing overlord - and Holger, really, knows far more about music and sound-engineering than that arrogant little puppy thinks he does. Oh, and not to mention, he's a thief, as well, and Holger knows that, too.<< continued Eberhard, clearly still quite miffed at Ralf.

>>A thief?<< I asked, worried. >>What on earth do you mean?<<

>>No, I mean, a musical thief, don't worry, little girl, he will not steal your diamonds or anything. But he takes things. Ideas. Compositions. Even musicians.<< Eberhard warned.

Emil bristled. >>But we all do. That's how art works. What was it the great Englishman said? Talent borrows; genius steals.<<

>>If you believe Ralf is a genius...<< I said, somewhat cattily, still smarting over the comments on my bottom.

>>Oh, he is a genius, don't you mistake that<< Emil replied.

>>Florian is the genius in that band<< Eberhard contradicted. >>Everyone plays in that band because they want to work with Florian. Florian is the ideas-man, their genius of sound.<<

>>Florian is the kind of genius who does not even realise he is a genius. He just thinks everyone in the world is exactly like him, and does not realise just how odd and how special he is<< said Emil.

>>Yes, while Ralf is the kind of genius who is quite singularly convinced of his own genius, and wants everyone to know and acknowledge it, all of the time. Even while he is thieving the talents of those around him<< sneered Eberhard, who seemed quite bitter about the man, even though he had just claimed he had been the one to leave the band.

>>How does he steal?<< I asked, beginning to feel very odd indeed about the way that he had retrieved and copied my programming code from the mainframe at school.

>>Here is a little story about how Ralf works. You know, I started playing with Florian first, a couple of years ago. And I got a job in a recording studio, as general dogsbody and teaboy. And I met this very interesting, very skilled producer who sometimes came to our studio to do mastering. So I made friends with him, this producer, Konrad Plank, chatted him up, trying to get him interested in maybe producing my band, and asked him to listen to some of our stuff. I introduce him to Florian, because Florian is my friend. And Florian introduces my hot-shot producer Conny to this other boy he has been playing with, up at the music school, this lad Ralf. Suddenly, one day, I ring up Conny to ask if he's had time to listen to my tapes - oh no. Suddenly he is too busy to work with me. He is producing Ralf and Florian's new band. This Ralf, he has stolen my flute-player, and he has stolen my producer!<<

>>But you still worked with him<< I pointed out.

>>Oh yes, he comes asking after me, saying they need a bass player when it is time to go and play some live gigs, and he needs a whole band, he can't just go in the studio and write all the parts himself - that is what those boys would really like to do. They talk a big talk about improvisation and free exchange of ideas with other musicians, and they get Kluster over from Berlin to come and play with them, and they visit Can down in Köln, and now they are after the guitarist from Spirits of Sound. But it is all about them, and all about what they think they can steal.<<

I looked across the pool towards the balcony, where Ralf and Florian were now deep in conversation, the two boys' heads nodding together, Florian stooped to push his face into the ear of his shorter companion. He was beautiful, yes, and so clever he made my head spin, but if Eberhard was right, I was having a lucky escape.

>>Are you alright<< asked Myrthe, sensing my quietness hid some worry.

>>I am just tired, I think I would like to go home.<<

>>Me, too<< said Anni. >>My swimming costume is dry; let's get dressed and see if we can find a taxi.<<

We looked over the swimming pool to see about our companions, but they were now involved in a very complicated game of naked pool polo with some of the musicians. I thought it better to leave them to it.

As we climbed the stairs, to find that our bags had been left discreetly outside Frau Schneider-Esleben's boudoir door, Anni patted me on the shoulder reassuringly. >>You know Eberhard is just talking sour grapes. He is very bitter because they kicked him out. Eberhard just wanted to make more traditional jazz music, while Florian and Ralf wanted to make experimental pop music. This is what Claudia told me, and she was friends with them before I was.<<

I looked back and forth between them, not knowing who to believe.


	8. Schaufensterpuppen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Jan starts a new project with one of her classmates, Florian and Ralf come up with a peace offering, in an attempt to ask her forgiveness for Ralf's little ~cultural misunderstanding~. But when Jan seems more interested in the shy boffin, Ralf's competitive nature is piqued.

I avoided Ralf in class for the next few days, and made a point of avoiding the computer lab whenever I heard Schubert from the hallway. To be fair, Ralf seemed terribly embarrassed, and did not particularly wish to meet my eyes either. It concerned me that I had not heard from Florian since, but perhaps, after all the mixed messages I'd encountered at his party, it was for the best that I did not pursue that option. OK, so my heart ached a little, but I compensated by throwing myself into my schoolwork.

Silke, of all people, suggested that we work on a project together. I was, perhaps, still a little bit in awe of her, and admired her boldness, so I was flattered that she even approached me, considering we only really had one class together. She was actually majoring in Couture, (whereas I was majoring in Design, with a minor in Textiles) which meant that she was far more interested in clothes and fashions than I was. I liked making fabrics; I didn't really mind what people did with them afterwards. But Silke eyed me with a professional air one day as we were walking across the neighbourhood to our favourite coffeeshop for lunch.

>>Jan, how tall are you?<<

>>178 centimetres exactly<< I told her, feeling somewhere between sheepish and defensive. I never knew why people made such a great issue out of my height, which seemed to me neither here nor there, though I knew it had made me very odd among the tiny English girls. >>Why?<<

As we settled into our customary booth for coffee and a sandwich, Silke took out her sketchbook. >>I want you to let me design a dress for you.<< I looked at her oddly over the rim of my coffee cup. >>No, silly. For my end of term project. I want to do something long, and sweeping, and very dramatic. The lines of the clothes will look much better on someone who is very tall, so I wondered if you would help me. You know, for the fittings.<<

I laughed aloud. >>This is one thing I will never understand about fashion, and you clothing designers. In textile design, we only have a loom or a printing machine of a certain size, so we have to alter our designs to fit the size of the loom. In couture, you say the clothes look better on taller models, so instead of altering the clothes to suit shorter women and make them look as good, you try and find taller and taller women to wear them?<<

>>Jan, I'm asking you because you're very beautiful, you have great poise, and your personal style is incomparable<< Silke insisted.

I peered at her, trying to work out why she was flattering me. >>Is this that thing where you are giving me the compliments because you wish me to do a favour for you?<<

She burst out laughing, and struck me gently on the shoulder, nearly spilling my coffee. >>Just take the compliment and say yes, OK?<<

And so I found myself, two evenings a week for the rest of the semester, standing on a footstool in my dorm room, trying to read a text book on a music stand below, as Silke fussed round the hem of my dress with a mouthful of pins. It was true; the clothes Silke was designing were very very beautiful, a mixture of silvery space age and the clean, minimal lines of 1930s tailoring, in complete contrast to the prevailing fashion of peasant dresses and home-made knitware. But they seemed to be incredibly complicated to make, and required endless fittings and re-fittings as she tried to decide how best the bodice should go. Clothes that simple, it seemed, required a great deal of effort to get so streamlined. She fitted and pinned and sewed then re-fitted and re-pinned and re-sewed as often as I seemed to rework the code on my computer-art programme, endlessly tinkering as I tried to balance on that chair.

And a week later, it was in this undignified position that I was standing, when we were startled by an insistent rapping on the window. Myrthe went over to open it, and we were rewarded with the delightful image of Florian's grinning face appearing in the gap.

>>Hello, hello, ladies, good evening<< he announced in a showman's voice. "Good night!"

Myrthe looked at him for a moment, then shrugged, and indicated towards me, gesturing for him to come in. >>She's here.<<

>>I know<< he said jauntily as he hauled himself up, then lifted his spindly legs into the room. >>We have... _Friedensangebot_ for you << he explained, but I shook my head at the unfamiliar word. "Peace offering," he added, when he realised I had no idea what he was talking about. >>Can Ralf come in? If you admit him, we will show you.<<

Another head appeared at the window, but it was not Ralf's. It was the glassy-eyed staring face of a popular model, as displayed in the showroom windows of the great department stores in Düsseldorf. Eberhard's words echoed in my head. Now where had those thieving boys got that? But as Florian reached down to take the head in his hands, the body of the creature emerged into the room. It wasn't a shop-window mannequin, it was a tailor's dummy, of the sort which could be adjusted to any height, any bust, and any hips or waist by cranking small handles at its base.

Abandoning me to my pins, Silke walked over and set it upright, adjusting the dials and laughing as she inflated its bust to ridiculous size, then slimming it down to more realistic proportions. It was a beautiful object, and clearly very well designed - not to mention probably very expensive. But it was also useless, to me.

>>This is beautiful<< said Silke, appreciatively. >>This is far more sophisticated than the ones we have in the school's workshop.<<

Slowly Ralf followed the mannequin through the window, though he was nowhere near as graceful as his friend had been, slipping slightly and collapsing on our floor in a sprawled pile. Picking himself up, he dusted off his shirt - a watermelon red shirt, I could not help but note. though the colour actually quite suited his pallor. >>It is very old<< he said slightly apologetically. >>Perhaps from the 1930s. We found it in a junk shop. But it reminded me of you.<<

>>But I am not a couture student<< I blurted out. Ralf's face abruptly fell. >>I study textile design.<<

Florian spoke up, a little too hasty in defence of his friend. >>But every night, when we walk by this street, we see you being pinned in the window. We thought it would be useful. Give you a break?<<

I stared at him. Wait, how often did they walk down our street? It was a side street, not exactly a main road, though it was a popular shortcut with students on their way to the Kunstakademie.

Myrthe leapt into the gap. >>It's beautiful<< she insisted. >>Thank you, Ralf. We _will_ use it. Definitely. << As if to prove her words, she found a brightly printed scarf and a large felt hat, and wrapped both around the creature's head. >>What shall we name her? Perhaps Marlene...<<

>>Marlene is a perfect name<< Silke agreed, picking a space-age-princess dress off the bed and pinning it to the dummy, then adjusting her size to fit my clothes.

"Ha-hem!" I coughed, gesturing to the dress hanging off me, which was too full of pins to move without risking being pricked.

"Am I forgiven?" asked Ralf quietly, looking at me with very serious eyes from under that greasy mane.

>>Only just<< I replied cautiously.

>>Good! Then we will have a celebration<< Florian announced, his face breaking into its customary wide grin as he dug in his rucksack, then produced a large bottle of the same brand of vodka we had been drinking that first night.

Myrthe let out a little squeal when she saw it, and she took it from him, going round the room to try to round up the wineglasses and teacups again. As Silke went off to the floor's kitchenette to wash them, I gestured helplessly to the circuit of pins around my neck, holding a new cut of collar in place.

Ralf stepped forward, but I glared at him so fiercely that Florian stepped between us. >>Allow me...<< Walking around to my back, he observed the stitching of the dress very carefully before reaching up to prod at the seams. >>This is like a puzzle of pins.<<

I let out an involuntary shiver as his fingers touched my neck. Suddenly, I felt like my entire skin was alight, conscious of the sound of his breathing so close behind me that I could actually feel his breath on my neck, raising all my hair. >>There should, somewhere amidst all the pins, be an actual zipper, if you can find it.<<

>>Where?<< His hand brushed against my hair, and I wanted to collapse into his arms. >>Ah, I think I see.<< One hand went to my shoulder, holding the fabric steady, as the other parted a seam and located the zip. >>I'll do this slowly; I don't want to tear the beautiful fabric.<< With expert manipulation, he held the top of the seam while pulling the zipper downwards, so slowly I felt like I was going to faint. As the fabric fell away, I realised how hot and sweaty the artificial silver nylon had been against my skin, my back and shoulders suddenly cold against the evening air, with Florian's breath raising little rivulets of warmth. He was standing so close, but really I only wanted him to stand closer. 

The whole dress peeled away like a banana skin as I sloughed it off. Ralf stared like his eyes were on stalks, then noticed he was staring, and coughed with embarrassment. >>I will avert my eyes<< he assured me as he turned away. Florian didn't even appear to notice.

>>It's OK<< I laughed. In my full-length slip, I was actually wearing far more clothes than I had been at the pool party, but with Florian's breath hot on my shoulders, I actually felt more exposed. >>Would you mind handing me that... shift?<< I gestured towards the shirt-dress I had abandoned on my bed.

Florian walked over and picked it up, then did a very odd thing. Instead of handing it to me directly, I saw him raise it, only for a moment, to his face, and sniff gently. A bold urge swept me, wanted to grab him and pull him towards me, and crush his face between my breasts, tell him _sniff all you like_. But I controlled myself, and pretended I hadn't seen, accepting the shirt-dress gratefully as I wrapped it around my shoulders.

>>Are you decent?<< called out Ralf.

>>I am always decent<< I told him, perching on the edge of my bed as I waited for Silke and Myrthe to return. The conversation that had flowed so easily before seemed to have completely stalled, as I wondered what to say. Ralf was just staring at me, as if terrified to say anything to me now. I knew we were supposed to be friends again, but it made me feel so odd, knowing he had made those awful comments about wanting to penetrate my behind. Was he thinking those things about me now, sitting on my floor, watching me studiously with those dark blue eyes the colour of a polluted sky? But Florian plunged bravely into the gap, sitting down next to me on my narrow dormitory bed.

>>How are you coming along with the Jacquard cards? I have been thinking about them all week, about the punch-marks and the burn-marks, about the confluence of the technical binary of perfection, with this uncontrolled burst of organic destruction. We try to do this with our music, too. Playing with synthesiser sequences, and the programmed drum patterns, against the chaotic, organic sound of my flute, and of course Klaus.<<

>>Yes, to have both order and randomness in equal balance. I have been thinking about this as Silke has been pinning clothes on me. The perfect - or nearly perfect - grid of the warp and weft of loom-woven fabric, how this reacts when placed against the curved, organic form of the human body.<<

>>Some bodies are more curved than others<< quipped Ralf, as if he just couldn't control himself from making inappropriate remarks.

I glared at him, and turned back to Florian, who was playing absent-mindedly with the hem of my shirt-dress. We were so close on the narrow bed that it lay against his leg. I felt so flustered by his touch that I switched back to English rather than risk my grammar again. "You see, when you cut fabric against the bias, it frays. Like that seam you are playing with is doing. The grid up against the curve, machine perfection against human imperfection, and human imperfection always wins."

Beside me, I could see Florian's mind speeding ahead of me, as his eyes lit up. "I have been thinking this same thing, recently. You see, I have been working on a piece of equipment - in German called the _Vocoder_ \- you have heard of it, ja?"

"Yes for secret voice transmissions. It compresses the human voice into narrow bands, yes? My father studied its potential implications for memory storage compression."

Florian nodded excitedly, his head twitching in animation. "Well, I study its potential implications for music composition use. You know Wendy Carlos, ja?" I shook my head. Now Florian grew even more excited. "Oh, if you come to my house again, I will play it for you. Very beautiful electronic music, all composed on the Moog, but for the voice, she utilises Vocoder. So I obtain one, and work on modifying it for our music. Now the thing with a Vocoder is, human voice, it is not composed of neat, tidy sine waves and square waves like electronic music. It is messy, complicated signal all full of messy sawtooth waves and distortion." He waved his hands about, depicting various waveforms. "It is, like human body, full of curves. So! If I want to properly depict most accurate representation of human voice in synthetic form, I have to apply distortion, to allow the signal to, as you put it... _fray_."

"It sounds too human when you do it like that," protested Ralf from the floor. "If we wanted human voices, we would sing ourselves. We want machine voices. Computer voices."

"So I spend all this time designing the delicate circuitry to make the synthetic voice fray, and sound like a convincing human being, and he makes me take it out again, to sound like the perfect electronic grid, all shiny and glass-like and inhuman." Florian shrugged, with an affectionate glance towards his friend, like a long-suffering wife.

"It sounds better more robotic!" Ralf insisted. "You said so yourself!"

There was a soft tap on the door, so I called out >>Come in?<<

Myrthe stuck her head through the gap cautiously, and looked around - which seemed absurd, as it was her room, too. But as she saw Florian and I sitting on the bed together, she looked faintly crestfallen. What, did she think she would come back from the kitchen to find Florian and I _Bumsen_ on the floor?  >>Sorry we took so long! Silke and I thought it would be better if we got some orange juice to mix the vodka with, so we went to the shops.<<

>>Good idea<< agreed Ralf. >>We can make _screwdrivers_. << He said the English name of the cocktail with undue emphasis on the screw, with a raised eyebrow towards me. I wanted to reach out and slap him. Why couldn't he be well-behaved, like Florian, and Florian a little more... well, Florian was sitting beside me, still playing with the hem of my dress, but he was doing it absent-mindedly, as if he wasn't even aware he was doing it, rather than in any deliberate attempt to make the fabric jiggle against my thigh.

Silke handed out the drinks, and we all sat in a loose circle, Silke and Myrthe on Myrthe's bed, Florian and I on mine, and Ralf in the middle on the floor. We clinked our glasses together in a toast, then Ralf immediately started being very annoying, digging through a pot of cosmetics, nail varnishes and things, that Myrthe had left on the floor.

>>What is this? Is it for model aeroplanes?<< asked Ralf, picking up a pot of slightly pearlescent nail varnish. He smiled and unscrewed the top of the bottle, sniffing at it before nodding approvingly at the brush in the lid of the pot. >>This is a very good idea. I wish airfix paint had come with this.<<

Florian's head twitched to attention at the sound of the word aeroplanes, but Myrthe merely laughed. >>No, silly. It is for nails. To strengthen them.<<

Ralf looked somewhere between perplexed and impressed. >>For nails? What, on your hands? Perhaps I need this. I am always shredding my fingernails on my organ keys.<< With a wobbly hand, he tried to apply the varnish to the nail of his thumb, but he applied far too much, and it clumped everywhere.<<

>>Don't, you're going to waste it<< admonished Myrthe. >>That stuff is expensive.<<

>>Here, you do it!<< demanded Ralf, thrusting his hand onto my knee and holding out the bottle. But as I recoiled, he seemed to grow embarrassed at his boldness. >>Please.<<

I took the varnish and started to paint, very gently, wiping the excess varnish off the brush before bending to apply it to his fingernails. He did have surprisingly beautiful hands, long and thin, with slight wrists and elegant fingers, but I was more interested in the conversation we had been forced to abandon on the girls' return, so I turned back to Florian. I wanted to interrogate him about bandwidth limitations, and tried to ask him how he worked out which bands to filter, if there was a difference between the male voice and the female, as my father had claimed there was.

Florian face lit up at the subject, and he grinned and said "Now that is a very interesting question..." but my friends interrupted.

>>No!<< cried out Silke, pressing her hands against her ears. >>Stop with the English! I can't stand it. These two are always yammering away in English, and they need to learn German.<<

\--Dutch-- said Myrthe, just to be annoying. --We speak Dutch, not English.--

>>They are all very similar languages, Dutch, English, German, if you know anything about linguistics and the Indo-European language group<< pointed out Florian. Ralf tapped at my knee impatiently, removing his left hand, waving it about to make the varnish dry before replacing it with his right.

"Well, not entirely," I contradicted as I bent down to apply varnish to Ralf's other hand. And honestly, I _knew_ from being told repeatedly, that I shouldn't contradict or correct men, that they didn't like it, but it was like some strange compulsion, when someone said something slightly wrong, I could not let it stand. "Dutch, Old Frisian and English - through Anglo-Saxon - are all derived from Old Low German, and so they are related very closely. But German is derived from Old High German, and not so similar at all."

>>Really?<< Florian cocked his head attentively as if considering this, as if he wasn't insulted at all by being corrected, but was actually simply pleased to have the additional information. >>I did not know that. How fascinating. I shall have to look into _Frisian_ << he said, as if considering the implications of what I'd said, and at that moment, I just wanted to throw my arms around him and embrace him. >>How many languages do you speak, Jan?<< He actually managed to pronounce my name correctly, albeit with a slightly French-sounding intonation, _Zhan_ , none of this 'Yon' or 'Chan' nonsense.

>>Including computer languages or no?<< I teased.

>>I believe I speak more than both of you<< interjected Ralf, and honestly, I thought he was about to take off his shoes and demand that I paint his toenails, like he just couldn't stand to be left out of any conversation that Florian and I might be having. >>I have French, too, and also some Spanish. I want to learn Japanese, next.<<

>>Ralf is so competitive. He wants to make a contest of everything. We should have his language competition, and then maybe we should have a race, just to make him most pleased<< Florian suggested, offering his friend the bait.

>>Alright. You're on. We have not raced in some time. How about it? Can you get the car? In the countryside, perhaps this Sunday. Would you like to join us, Jan?<< Ralf turned towards me expectantly.

>>What kind of race?<< I asked nervously.

>>Oh, just a friendly race<< Ralf tried to shrug in a nonchalant manner, but it was obvious that he was excited by the prospect. >>Out to our favourite beergarden and back. Loser buys Sunday lunch.<<

Florian's expression was positively wicked. >>If he insists that he wishes to throw away his money by pitting his little Volkswagen against my father's Mercedes Benz, who am I to stop him.<<

>>It's not the car, it's the driver, the route, the technique. And you are a terrible driver<< countered Ralf.

>>Boys, the testosterone in here is getting a bit overwhelming!<< said Myrthe sharply.

>>Never mind, perhaps she is afraid to race with us<< said Ralf, with a challenging, slightly mocking tone, raising one eyebrow at me.

>>I'm not afraid, I'm just aware that Sunday is the only day that we get a full, uninterrupted eight hours in the computer lab, and if you're off _boy-racing_ , I would like to take advantage of your absence.<<

>>Not any more we don't<< Ralf informed me in a supercilious tone, as if lording it over me that he knew something I didn't.

>>What?<<

>>Herr Grundesbach has commandeered the lab at weekends to run calculations for his physics class, from now until the end of term. We are back to just evenings again. Did you not get the announcement?<<

>>You're lying<< I hissed. >>To make me go on this Sunday drive of yours.<<

>>Ask the Professor in class tomorrow. It's true.<< Ralf shrugged.

I sighed deeply, seeing the end of my project disappearing off further and further into the distance. Would it even be finished by the time I had to leave Germany in the New Year? >>Alright, if it's true, I will join you on Sunday.<< I agreed tentatively.


	9. Glitzerstrahl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan makes a terrible mistake when she agrees to get in a car with Florian, for what was supposed to be a relaxing drive out to a beergarden. Ralf continues to be annoying, but Jan soon discovers that he is one of those young men who can dish it out, but cannot take it.

We met in an empty lot in the Altstadt, near the river, which Florian had calculated was the exact geographical centre of Düsseldorf. As I walked up, swinging my carpet bag, excited at the prospect of fresh air and an afternoon in the peaceful countryside, I could see the pair of them standing in front of their cars, murmuring back and forth with the unfettered urgency of two young men who had not indeed spent practically every spare moment of the previous week talking together.

Florian waved, as he spotted me first, or rather, he heard me. >>I could hear the click of your shoes from half a mile off. You have a very distinctive gait<< he told me with a characteristically broad grin as I walked up to them.

>>Do I?<< I had never noticed.

>>You walk very fast for a woman, and quite determined<< Ralf supplied, and I almost felt complimented until he added >>A good stride and a determined gait is an attractive trait in a young woman.<<

I glared at him, then gave up and rolled my eyes. >>You do know, Ralf, that not every single thing that a woman does in her life is with the aim of conforming to a man's expectations of feminine attractiveness.<<

>>You are a feminist.<< Florian seemed surprised.

>>Of course I am<< I snorted. >>I am a modern woman!<<

>>My sisters are both ardent feminists<< Florian explained. >>It annoys my father, so of course I am in full accord with them.<<

I laughed, even as I looked behind them, and saw his father's car. It was a good, solid, dependable family car, rather than a racing type, though Ralf's battered grey VW looked like it had been customised, just like all of his musical equipment.

>>You will ride with me, of course<< said Ralf, pulling a pair of black leather driving gloves out of his pockets and snapping them down over his wrists with the precision of a surgeon.

>>I will nothing of the sort<< I laughed, moving round to the passenger side of the Mercedes.

>>I must warn you, Flori is a terrible driver. You take your life in your hands if you travel with him<< Ralf informed me, furrowing his brow. I stayed resolute, even as he slipped into the driver's seat of his VW, turning the engine over and revving it a few times, allowing it to idle to warm up.

Florian grinned in triumph, as he slipped into his own car, then leant over to open the door for me. >>He is so predictable<< he informed me, gesturing towards Ralf's car. >>He proceeds straight to the motorway, drives 30 kilometres out of the way, all around Düsseldorf in a great loop, all perfectly straight, all perfectly even, at a regular pace, sees none of the countryside, then drops off at the correct exit and makes up the time going directly to the Beergarden. Me, I prefer the short-cut. The Mercedes' suspension handles better on the back roads and hills, so I strike out on my own, direct through the countryside.<<

>>Well, that sounds like a nicer drive<< I observed.

>>Indeed, it is. And I am always sitting in the parking lot waiting for him when he arrives.<< Florian slipped the key into the ignition and turned the engine over, even as Ralf was still swapping out his glasses for prescription sunglasses.

>>We'll see<< called back Ralf, as Florian put the Mercedes into gear and cruised out onto the street.

>>Wait<< I said. >>Aren't you supposed to warm up...<<

>>Yes!<< shouted Ralf out the window. >>The hare in his speedy Mercedes always has a mechanical break-down and spends 20 minutes fixing the car engine, while me, the slow tortoise in his Volkswagen makes my way to the surely and steadily to the goal. See you in the Beergarden!<<

It would be some time before I regretted a decision quite so much as I regretted getting into that Mercedes with Florian. He was, as Ralf had predicted, an absolutely terrible driver. He revved the engine too hot, he scraped the gears when changing them, and he took corners so fast that the tyres screamed and I was thrown against him - an eventuality I might have enjoyed in any other circumstances, had I not been so terrified for my life. And he was not just a technically incompetent driver, he was also rude, and horribly aggressive in traffic. He cut people off, he jumped queues, he refused to let passing traffic merge in front of him, gesticulating imperiously through the window at anyone he deemed insufficiently respectful to his vehicle's right of way. My white knuckles were leaving deep imprints on the dashboard before we had even left Düsseldorf's city limits.

Out in the countryside, freed from the restraints of traffic, once we had passed the ring of factories around the city, if anything, he became still worse! Throwing the car into its top gear, he roared along tiny, badly paved country roads, kicking up billowing clouds of dust behind us. And woe betide anyone he wished to overtake! Florian did not bother with anything so pedestrian as indicators or turn signals. He simply roared up behind passenger cars, farm tractors, old couples out for a pleasant Sunday drive, and leaned on the hooter until they pushed to the side. Even if they did not push to the side, often he simply wrenched the car out into oncoming traffic and dashed quickly across to the other side to overtake, sometimes without even checking if anything was coming.

And the astonishing thing was, his overall demeanour did not change in the slightest, during all of this. If he had grown angry, and shouted, or lost his temper, I might have understood why he drove like a complete maniac. But he continued to speak calmly to me, to adjust the radio to pick up a light classical station between gear-shifts, and to be generally as pleasant and mild-mannered as if he were not whipping the both of us about the Rhineland countryside at velocities approaching the speed of sound.

The scenery was, indeed, incredibly beautiful, large open fields waving with ripe grain, interspersed with deep, sleepy old forests as we crossed the ridges. It was a clear, bright, early autumn day, and the countryside seemed to glow with golden hues. But I was too terrified to enjoy it, too terrified to let go of the handles on dashboard and door, for fear I would be thrown out of my seat if I dared to look about.

Although conversation was slow getting off the ground at first, soon, Florian picked up the slack, though perhaps he simply did not notice that I was too speechless with fright to speak. He started to tell me an amusing anecdote about Klaus and his family. Klaus, it transpired, had quite simply forgotten to go home after the end of the party, had stayed for breakfast the next morning, and after a few days, had moved into one of the Schneider-Eslebens' guest bedrooms. He was, by all reports, enjoying the food, hospitality and maternal attentions of Evamaria, who found him completely charming and highly diverting. >>Guest bed _rooms_? << I asked, wondering how much further the house had extended than the vast pile I had already seen.

>>Oh yes<< explained Florian, taking another hairpin turn at speed. >>There are only seven bedrooms left over since my father took one for a spare office. My mother's you have seen, then my father's bedroom, mine, one each for my sister Claudia and my little sister Tina. Which leaves only two for guests. Klaus has moved into the one where I had been keeping musical equipment - well, musical equipment that Ralf and I have not transferred down to our workshop yet. Which makes things very tight, in the house! But it is nice having Klaus nearby, it means we can rehearse at any time.<<

I gulped nervously as the car roared through a tunnel without slackening its pace, and, more distressingly, without even turning on the headlamps. How we did not perish, I would never know, and could only trust it was sheer blind luck.

>>We are trying to put together a full live performance to take on a tour, to promote our record. The record company, they want us to play, all across West Germany! And we have even been asked to book appearances on the television. Would you be amused by that, seeing your ugly old friends making music on the television?<<

>>Oh yes, that's very excite....<< My voice froze and I let out a whistling hiss of panic as the car dived down into a steep valley, then forded a small brook at speed, sending vast sheets of shimmering water spraying up behind us. Since I only had the window open a crack, I was showered with a few small droplets, but Florian, resting his arm on the open window, got a bit of a soaking.

>>What a spot of back luck<< he laughed, wiping his face dry with the other hand, leaving the wheel completely unattended for a few moments, and catching it only just in time to avoid shooting off the road as the car climbed up the opposite side of the valley. >>Never mind, it is a warm day so it will dry soon, and we are nearly there.<<

True to his word, the car climbed the last ridge, then crawled down a steep river valley to the pub in just under two hours. It was halfway up a mountain side, in the curve of a ravine bounded with woods on one side, but opened by a steep, glittering stream on the other. And at the curving junction where the road that came over the hill joined up with the road that snaked up from the motorway, stood a tall, brightly painted wooden building that looked like a cross between a Swiss chalet and a tithe barn. The whole setting, the mountain, the inn, the wide beergarden meandering down to the stream at the back, it was like something out of a fairy tale. Florian parked under a tree, then looked about with satisfaction. Ralf's grey Beetle was nowhere to be seen.

>>We are first. I told you we would be<< he announced with pride as he climbed out of the driver's seat and stretched his legs. >>Shall I go inside and buy some beer to drink, while we wait for Ralf?<<

I was still inside the car, still staring straight ahead, gripping the handle on the dashboard and waiting for my stomach to stop flip-flopping and my thighs to unclench so I could stand. >>Yes<< I managed to gasp.

>>Are you coming in or do you want to sit outside? It's a nice day, maybe we should sit outside.<< Florian looked about, incredibly pleased with himself as he surveyed his domain.

>>Just as soon as the ground stops moving<< I told him.

As I finally found the courage to uncurl myself from the car and teeter nervously into the sunlight, a Beetle appeared in the distance, at the end of the long road that wound up through the valley. After a few minutes, Ralf pulled in, and parked next to us, even as I was still clinging to the side of the Mercedes, waiting to stop feeling like I was going to throw up.

>>If you say anything, I will murder you<< I muttered, to his deeply bemused gaze.

>>Flori is my dearest friend, but he is a maniac. He does not know how to handle cars or women<< Ralf said in a supercilious, arrogant sort of tone.

I glared at him, and tried to think of a withering put-down but I had misplaced my stomach too far down the valley to be caustic. >>As if you would know about either<< I muttered, too low to hear.

>>I take it you will be riding home with me.<< He smirked as he pushed his greasy forelock out of his eyes.

I said nothing, but nodded. I had my pride, but I didn't have _that_ much pride.

>>I'll go in and order lunch. If you're not too carsick to eat, what do you want?<<

>>Cheese, bread, anything they have that is vegetarian.<<

Ralf beamed. >>You are vegetarian? So are we.<< The casually plural way he said it contained a whole world of latent eroticism, as if he were a wife speaking in the plural for her husband and herself. I looked at him intently, suddenly seeing his remarks to Florian back at the swimming pool in a different light, and wondered if I had got the whole thing wrong.

But at that moment, Florian emerged through the door to the dark barroom, and smiled when he saw us. >>Ralf! Nice of you to finally join us<< he teased, walking over and handing one beer to me, and the other to his friend. With an almost proprietorial air, he placed his hand on the small of my back, and gestured over towards the large beergarden on the sunny side of the valley. >>Would you like to go over and select a table, dear-heart?<<

I might have mistaken the tone of the endearment for simple affection, had Ralf's face not darkened. >>We are having vegetarian cheese platter. Do you want ham with your asparagus again?<< he asked, pointedly.

Florian looked mortally offended. >>I do not eat ham. I am vegetarian. But if I choose to have a little bacon fat as a condiment on my vegetables, I am hurting no one.<<

I looked back and forth between them, wondering if the competitive mood of the race had darkened what was normally a perfectly amicable friendship, and felt suddenly responsible. >>You two go back to the bar together<< I told them, as I fished my carpet bag - and more importantly my sun hat - from the back of Florian's car. >>I will choose a table.<<

Wandering down to the beergarden, I looked over the tables - most of them were standard picnic tables with a bench on either side, where I would be forced to sit with one, and opposite the other. But then, right at the back, I spotted a large round table with a circular bench that went all the way around. Problem solved. I sat down, facing back towards the entrance, and sipped my beer.

Both of them seemed to be in better spirits when they emerged, laughing and joking with one another in their accustomed way. I was happy to see both of them smiling and touching one another gently on the arm as they made their way back towards me, each holding a pint in his hand. >>It is all settled<< announced Ralf with a smile as he somehow managed to sit, not in the triangle I had planned, but directly next to me. As Florian settled in, approximately opposite to us both, Ralf raised his glass. >>To friendship!<< he toasted.

>>To friendship<< Florian agreed amicably, before producing a packet of peanuts from his pocket. He ripped the pack open, split it neatly down the middle, then placed it on the table between us.

Trying to avoid staring at Florian's face, lightly flushed with the beer and the sunlight, I looked out past him, down through the trees to the vista below. >>Look at the sun<< I observed, not knowing what else to say, as both of them had gone very quiet again. Although it was still sunny up in the hills, the valley had accumulated a pall of clouds, or smoke, or mist billowing up from the Rhine, and the sun was providing a dazzling display of crepuscular rays casting beams of gold and grey across the landscape. >>I don't know the word in German - but... I find _crepuscular rays_ are so beautiful. <<

>>Glitzerstrahl<< provided Ralf, by my elbow. >>I always thought that was the most evocative word in the German language.<<

I tried it on my tongue, then had to laugh. >>Come on, you've got to admit, German is not a beautiful language.<<

Ralf looked most put out, as if I had just insulted his mother. >>Of course it is! Have you ever read Goethe? Rainier Maria Rilke? Thomas Mann?<<

>>Not in the original, and I think poetry loses something in the translation.<<

Looking suddenly very serious, Ralf placed his hand on his chest, and started to recite, slowly and sonorously in his deepest voice. Sitting there, in the sun, sipping cold wheatbeer with his lilting voice letting loose these long strings of rolling Rs and lengthened vowels, I thought perhaps I could stand to be persuaded on the merits of German poetry.

>>Alright, alright<< I conceded, in a playful tone. >>You will have to school me.<<

>>I intend to<< he replied, in complete earnestness. >>Your education is shockingly incomplete, without Goethe.<<

>>Oh, if she doesn't want to learn German poetry, don't force her<< Florian laughed. >>That is one certain way to make a person loathe a topic. Like myself, with architecture.<< His eyes sparkled as he said this, though he made a grim expression with his mouth. >>Jan, if you want to understand the beauty of the German culture, you should start with its music - Bach and Mozart and Beethoven will teach you more of the rhythm and tonality of our speech than Goethe or Mann ever will. Not to mention our rich heritage of folk songs, and _lyrical_ poetry. <<

Ralf leaned in close and made a face. >>Keep your voice down, if you please, Flori. I am almost certain that in an establishment such as this, there may be numerous folk musicians in attendance. And if you draw attention to this request, at any moment, one of them may produce an accordion and we shall all be forced to _sing_ along <<

His face as he said this looked so completely serious that I burst into laughing, and as his lips peeled back in a smile, I realised he had indeed been joking. Ralf's sense of humour was subtle, and often slightly cruel, but I was starting to get used to it.

>>You should learn to play the accordion, Ralf<< I teased. >>You can entertain us on long car trips.<<

For a moment, he looked outraged, but his face relaxed as he realised I was joking. >>Perhaps I will. Or perhaps I will invent a pocket synthesiser that I can bring to entertain myself on long car trips. Miniaturisation is advancing every year. They say that soon there will be computers small enough to have in our homes.<<

Florian grinned. >>And then, perhaps one day we will have computers small enough to fit inside two-way wrist-watch radios, like Dick Tracy.<<

>>Wearable computers<< suggested Ralf. >>I'm sure that your fashionable friend Silke Weber could design a fabulous computer-suit with data inputs on the lapels.<<

>>And we will all be carrying tiny, portable computers with us everywhere we go, that detail our likes and interests and personalities, and when we are sitting in bars, we will be connecting to other people's computers to check out if the man sitting next to them at the bar is available or married, or perhaps even establish from the data if we are compatible, all at the flick of a switch.<< I teased, smiling at Florian in a way I hoped was flirtatious.

Ralf nudged me gently with his elbow. >>He is available. The man next to you, he is definitely available<< he hinted, but then looked across at Florian, who had cocked his head to one side and was staring enraptured at me, as if he had never before even contemplated the idea of using computers to establish romantic communication. >>Well. We are _both_ of us available at the moment. <<

I opened my mouth to say something, to perhaps dispel some of the tension that had been ebbing and waning all afternoon, perhaps spell it out in language clear enough that even Ralf could understand, that I was not interested in him sexually. That I was, to be fair, beginning to enjoy his company far more than I had expected, based on how irritating I had initially found him, but that I saw him only as Florian's friend. And Florian was the person that excited me most, in a romantic sense.

But the waitress came before I could find a way to put it all into proper German words in a way that he would not find insulting - or worse, re-ignite the competitive streak between him and his best friend. And as she was passing out the food - cheese platters for myself and Ralf, and a dish full of steamed asparagus tips with a tiny side of fatty bacon for Florian - the moment faded away, the direct invitation slipped from memory and I never got the chance.

Soon, as always happened, the conversation turned back to their music and their band. >>You are certain that Michael will not join us for rehearsal on Tuesday<< Ralf continued to push, even though I had heard not just from Florian, but from Myrthe too, that Michael had no intention of working with Power Station.

>>No, he is committed to Wolfgang. But never mind<< said Florian, delicately skewering each asparagus stick in turn and dipping it gently into the fat. >>I have another friend from the Conservatory I have asked to sit in with us on guitar and electric violin.<<

>>Ach<< sighed Ralf, spreading a thin layer of pickle on his hard, dark German bread before affixing a perfectly subdivided piece of cheese. >>Why the best guitarist in Düsseldorf should be so attached to that degenerate skirt-chaser, I will never know.<< He seemed to cling to the topic like a terrier with a piece of rag, unable to let go of the idea that someone he wanted to be in his band did not want to play with his him. >>He is a terrible drummer, too, that Wolfgang Flür, he plays such simplistic beats. No complexity to his sound, no subtlety. Like a caveman. A Neanderthal. Banging out a rigid grid, with no flexibility.<<

>>Did you know, Jan<< said Florian, looking vaguely off into the distance, as if he wasn't really trying desperately to change the subject at all. >>That the valley this stream eventually flows into is the actual famous Neanderthal Valley, where our illustrious caveman ancestors' bones were first discovered?<<

>>Really? Can we go and look after lunch? I quite fancy digging around in caves<< It pleased me, the way Florian seemed to be such a font of endless information.

>>Oh no, the caves are quite gone. The bones were discovered while mining - there is nothing but a quarry there now.<< said Florian.

>>Is there at least a monument or something?<< I asked, disappointed.

>>There is a museum, but it is not open on Sundays.<< Ralf supplied. >>And anyway, Flori has his facts not entirely correct. The Neanderthals are not our ancestors; Cro-Magnon man is the ancestor of modern German man.<<

>>No, Florian is indeed correct. You know they interbred, the Neanderthals and the Cro-Magnons, the primitive cavemen and the modern humans<< I teased him, as the beer and the sunshine started to go to my head, making me feel quite bold.

>>They did no such thing<< insisted Ralf, looking vaguely disgusted.

>>They did! I've read it in science journals. Many modern humans have quite a bit of Neanderthal genes. I bet you have quite a lot of Neanderthal in you<< I continued, trying to provoke him. >>Look at your prominent jawline. That's a Neanderthal jaw if I ever saw one.<<

Ralf pulled away from me physically, raising his hand to his neck and touching it as if suddenly becoming aware of it. >>It is nothing of the sort. It is a Cro-Magnon jaw. And I have far too large a cranium for you to even joke about my being Neanderthal. They were little better than apes. With tiny brains.<<

>>Yes, you do have a very large forehead. One might even call you an _egghead_ << I flipped back in complete jest, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realised I had gone too far. I wanted to sink down through the floor, through the mountain, into the rocks beneath, as I saw the look on his face was almost incandescent with umbrage. Clearly, Ralf did not have a sense of humour about his somewhat striking appearance.

All in a sort of rage, he pushed himself off the bench without speaking to me, and rose to his feet, looking like he wasn't sure if he wanted to flee into the safety of the pub, or get into his car and drive away all the way back to Düsseldorf. >>I... I...<< he stuttered, then flipped his hair impetuously out of his face and announced. >>I have had too much beer. I will find the waitress to obtain a cup of coffee.<< And with that, he stalked off, silently fuming, even as he was clearly trying to maintain his dignity.

>>Was that a bit too far, I guess<< I mumbled, picking up my beerglass to find it empty. Really, I wanted another, but I could hardly ask Ralf to buy me one now.

>>Yes, I would say so<< replied Florian, eyeing me carefully from under his thick, pale eyelashes.

I kind of curled in on myself, feeling like Ralf had said much, much worse about me, and perhaps he deserved it, but I felt more terrible for the way Florian was looking at me than how I'd made Ralf act. >>I'm sorry. I was teasing.<<

>>It's not me you should be apologising to<< said Florian pointedly, but then he sighed and took a sip of his own wheatbeer. >>You could stand to be a little kinder to Ralf, you know. He is very shy, and he likes you a lot.<<

>>Ralf? Shy?<< I scoffed. >>Ralf isn't the slightest bit shy; if anything, his problem is, he's too arrogant.<<

Florian shook his head gently. >>You don't see the arrogance is covering up the shyness? People often think Ralf is aloof, even self-centred and cold. But he is not at all, he is just highly sensitive and very insecure. Ralf does not make friends easily. He is quite a lonely young man, really.<<

I looked at Florian, shocked. Florian was not someone that I thought of as being particularly attuned to the emotions of others at all; he usually seemed like he was off in his own little world. >>Like attracts like<< I blurted out. >>I think you are both rather lonely young men.<<

Florian spread his hands; he had beautiful, expressive hands that never quite seemed to be still. >>I am not lonely any more, since I have the band now. And anyway, I think that I am, by nature, better built to withstand solitude than Ralf is. I am actually quite happy in the company of my machines. But Ralf, he craves human companionship. His music is his way of trying to attain it, don't you see?<<

I stared down into my empty glass, desperately wishing for another to make this awful aching feeling go away. I couldn't stand the idea of Florian being disappointed or displeased with me. >>I should apologise to him, huh.<<

>>Yes, I think you should.<< Florian leaned back on the bench, staring up into the sky, then flipped a pair of sunglasses onto his face, shutting down conversation.

Picking up my glass, I trudged recalcitrantly into the darkness of the pub. Inside, I found Ralf easily, standing at the bar, waiting for his coffee. He didn't see me; he was staring at his own reflection in the mirror above the bar, setting his jaw, tensing it, and then releasing it, touching the cleft in his chin gingerly and trying to look at himself from different angles as if trying to decide whether he looked like a Neanderthal after all.

Resisting the urge to tease him further about this rampant display of vanity, I slipped in quietly next to his elbow and caught the barmaid's eye. >>I'm sorry<< I mumbled to him, as I handed over the glass and gestured for another. >>I wasn't insulting you with genuine feeling of badness, I was just... well...<< I switched to English as the German was refusing to flow again. "I suppose it is a thing that the English just do. We insult people playfully, as a way of showing regard, even affection."

Ralf looked at me with distrust. "Ah yes. The English sarcasm. I have been warned about this. Barbaric people that you are."

It was my turn to recoil and pull away. "I'm trying to apologise to you. There's no need to be rude."

I had expected him to turn towards me with that horrible, smug look of superiority that he liked to wear in class, but for a moment, an odd, helpless, almost panicking expression crossed his face. "So it seems this insult-as-affection thing does not work when German people try to do it."

"Oh" I said stupidly. I was forever missing jokes.

"I _like_ you a lot, Chan," he said, very quietly, barely able to meet my eyes.

I scanned his face carefully, looking for signs that he was joking, or just being horrible again, but his face seemed innocent, even vulnerable. Florian's words about his loneliness echoed in my head. "I am starting to like you, too, Ralf, maybe against my better judgement," I told him, thinking how well I knew what it was to be lonely, and resolving to make better friends with Florian's friends.

Ralf's face slowly curled into a hesitant smile. Really, he wasn't a bad-looking man when he smiled that genuine, shy, little-boy smile. HIs face might even take on a soft kind of prettiness when he smiled; but it was just so rare to see him without his customary scowl of concentration on his face. "Is that that English sarcasm again?"

"No, I'm being serious." I picked up my pint from the bar, and carried it outside. And Ralf picked up his cup of coffee and followed me like a puppy.


	10. Invitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the ride back to Düsseldorf, Ralf is so awkward he fails to make any progress whatsoever with Jan. But back at home, as Jan and Florian flirt over the 'erotic possibilities of bass' and a potential camping trip to the commune at Forst, they find themselves cockblocked at every opportunity by an irritated third wheel.

We did not leave the beergarden until late afternoon, even though Ralf had switched to coffee, and Florian drank so slowly that the alcohol never seemed to permeate his long, bony frame. I, however, had rather a lot to drink, as was not customary for me, but perhaps I felt I needed to deaden my nerves for the drive home.

As we walked to the parking lot, Florian gestured towards his car. >>Are you sure you won't ride in the Mercedes? I will take the Autobahn if it makes you feel safer.<< Ralf positively glared at him.

>>Quite sure<< I told Florian, patting him gently on the elbow before I moved back towards Ralf's Beetle. The two men exchanged a look I could not quite read, Ralf raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips, before Florian mouthed something silently that I did not catch. But then Ralf unlocked the door and tossed books, sheet music, even a couple of emptied coffee cups into the back of the car, so I could slip in beside him.

He turned the ignition over, then sat, gently revving the engine as he pulled on his leather driving gloves, and started to adjust the mirrors. Next to us Florian gunned the engine of that giant gunboat of a Mercedes, with an awful scraping sound of metal on metal, then waved jauntily and pulled out in a cloud of dust and a suspicious burning smell.

>>If he wrecks that car, there will be hell to pay with his father<< Ralf sighed, peering carefully through his glasses at the instruments and dials on the dashboard. >>If you would like to listen to music, please feel free to operate the radio<< he offered, gesturing towards the dash before finally deciding that the car was ready to drive, and putting it into gear.

Ralf was, indeed, a very careful driver, I noted as he switched on his indicator, leaned forward to look past me to check there were no cars coming from further up the mountain, then pulled out onto the road. The VW was much closer to the ground than the Merc had been, but it was surprisingly spacious for such a small car. He might even be able to fit his organ on the rear seat if he cleaned out the mess.

I turned on the radio, and started to scan the dial, fascinated by the phenomenon of German radio. >>Ach, not this nonsense<< Ralf sneered as I momentarily paused on something that had sounded like a German version of the Andrew Sisters.

>>OK<< I sighed, and moved on. The next station was playing a Wagner opera.

>>Now this is lugubrious shit. I'm sorry, but absolutely not. I can't have this on when I'm driving.<<

>>I don't even like opera<< I confessed and moved on.

>>How can you not like opera?<< demanded Ralf. >>This seems to me a very short-sighted opinion. I can understand not having the taste for Wagner, but to not like an entire musical genre... Keep a more open mind, Chan.<<

>>I just don't like it, alright<< I could feel something prickle with annoyance on the back of my neck, but moved on to the next station. This was a pop station, that was playing an old Cowsills bubblegum tune I genuinely loved.

>>This is pabulum!<< Ralf spat petulantly. >>Anodyne nonsense to pacify housewives. Can't German radio ever play anything decent? Isn't there a jazz station a little further up the dial? Or at least I think they do a free jazz show on Sunday evenings.<<

I pursed my lips and turned the radio off, deciding better then to tell him my opinion on Free Jazz. Resting my elbow on the car's door, I took off my sun hat and played gently with the short hair at the back of my neck as I stared out the window, watching the lush green of the German countryside rush by in a colourful autumn blur. Only the mountains in the distance seemed to stay constant, a serene purple-blue presence in the far South.

As the car hit a long, straight patch, Ralf risked taking his eye off the road and looked over towards me carefully, taking in the nervous way I was tugging at the tufts of my shorn hair. >>You know, you really should grow your hair long again. Women always look more attractive with long hair.<<

The prickle of annoyance turned into a wave of irritation. >>And men are more attractive when they keep their impertinent opinions on women's appearances to themselves!<<

Ralf did not take a hint, grinning slightly as he turned back towards the road. What, did he think I was joking, with the old English Sarcasm again? >>But you are an artist, a designer. Wouldn't you prefer to look your most attractive?<<

>>I prefer to look the most stylish<< I practically snapped. >>And short hair is much more stylish now that every dirty hippie has long hair.<<

Ralf put his hand to his own neck almost subconsciously, feeling for the greasy curls that clustered there, turning blondish at the ends from being in the sun all day. >>Do you not like my hair?<< he said, sounding slightly hurt, despite how badly he had been criticising my appearance.

>>Do you want me to answer that honestly, or will you sulk all the way back to Düsseldorf?<<

Pushing his lips so tightly together that they formed a grim line, Ralf reached down to turn the radio on, and stabbed at the buttons at random. A Beatles track filled the car, and he left it. Was this better than riding with Florian? I wasn't so sure. To be fair, Ralf drove so confidently and smoothly that I barely needed my seatbelt. But at least Florian had entertained me with witty asides and entertaining stories about Klaus or his family or the countryside we had been passing through. Florian was a _noticer_. He observed trees and houses and roadnames and wildlife through the same wandering gaze, even when I would have preferred him to be looking at the road. Ralf drove as if he were in a tunnel, and kept silent.

>>You know<< said Ralf after another mile. >>You could talk a little more. Be more entertaining to me while I drove.<<

>>So could you<< I snapped. It wasn't like this when Florian was with us. Somehow Florian, charming and charismatic Florian with his endlessly encouraging smile, managed to pull both of us out of ourselves, and the conversation flowed when he was around.

>>I am not so good at talking<< said Ralf petulantly. >>That's why I make music.<<

Fine, I thought to myself. You make music, then, and don't expect me to entertain you. I turned away, staring out the window, listening to the hum of the engine and the whine of larger cars shooting by us, and the faint bumpety-bump sound the car's tyres made every time they passed from one large sheet of road surface to another.

>>What would you like me to tell<< he finally said, after half a mile of realising that the silence wasn't going to go away of its own accord.

>>Tell me about you.<<

>>There is nothing to tell.<< Though the answer might have come through shyness, it sounded evasive.

>>Do you have a family?<< I pursued.

>>Of course I do. I have a father and a mother, in Krefeld.<<

>>Are you an only child?<< I asked, wondering if that, at least, would explain his almost pathological inability to make conversation.

>>No, I have a younger sister.<< It was like pulling teeth, trying to get any information out of him whatsoever. Asked to provide personal information, he answered the bare minimum, and no more.

>>Does she have a name?<<

>>Anke.<< Well, that was a dead end.

>>Pets<< I said. >>Do you have any pets. Cats or dogs. Perhaps goldfish.<<

>>None<< he replied, and that exhausted my German vocabulary for family members.

>>What was the last novel that you read?<< I flung across the car as a last-dtich effort to pull something more than monosyllabic out of him.

That seemed to throw him for a moment, but then he shrugged. >>The Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse. Actually, I really enjoyed it, though I thought it might be - as you would put it - hippie nonsense. But I was intrigued. I thought it would just be, you know, typical sex and drugs and mystical bollocks. But the friendship of the two musicians, and the way that they addressed their psychological issues in the Magic Theatre, I found it most inspiring.<<

>>Two musicians<< I mused, trying to remember what I had heard of the plot. >>Let me guess, one plays the organ and the other the flute.<<

>>Close, but it is the saxophone.<< Ralf smiled his rare little-boy smile and risked a glance at me out of the corner of his eye. For a moment, I almost started to like him again, but his next question was so rude I wanted to hit him. >>Chan, why do you never wear cosmetics?<<

>> _What_? << I sputtered, wondering where on earth that had come from.

>>That night at the Creamcheese Club, you were wearing cosmetics. It looked very fetching. But today, you are not. I wondered if there were a reason.<<

Wondering how on earth it was any of his business, I opened and closed my mouth a few times, just speechless with irritation before blurting out. >>A car race... followed by Sunday lunch in the country... It just did not seem...<< My German ran out. Why did he always do this to me. ""Appropriate. It did not seem the slightest bit appropriate, OK?"

"Appropriate," he repeated, then noticed the signs on the motorway. >>We are coming back into Düsseldorf now. Where do you want to go?<<

>>Are we meeting Florian again?<< I asked hopefully.

Ralf's face darkened slightly, but he shrugged and shook his head. >>We made no plans to. I expect he has to get the car back so his father can drive to work tomorrow.<<

>>Oh. I see.<< I tried to hide my disappointment.

>>If you do not want to go back to your dormitory, we can drive to the river. I always enjoy watching the sun set over the Rhine.<<

He parked the car in a long, narrow parking lot by the Rheingartchen, and we climbed out and sat on the bonnet, staring out across the wide, lazy river towards a stretch of sandbanks on the opposite side. It was a beautiful evening, now the rain had cleared, and the haze of cloud only seemed to turn the sunset a golden-rose colour. 

>>I do wish Florian were here<< I sighed. >>He would love this.<<

>>To be frank, I am rather glad that he is not<< laughed Ralf.

>>Why?<< I felt oddly protective of the absent young man.

>>I am sure that he would find fault with something, with the view, with the traffic noise, with the sound of the boats going up and down the river. He is my best friend, but he is overbearing sometimes<< said Ralf, without the slightest hint of self-awareness.

>>I don't find Florian overbearing at all<< I protested.

>>You are not in a band with him. Do you know what he did, just the other week? You see, while he was away for summer holidays, Klaus and I were hard at work in the studio, finishing the drum tracks for the album. We recorded them, and our producer, Conny, was very happy with them. We were just ready to submit them to our record company, when who should come swanning back from a family holiday in the South of France. He listens to the final mixes and says, oh no, this is absolutely no good. We have to do the drum tracks all over again. And he made poor Klaus play them all over again and poor Conny record them once more!<<

>>What was wrong with them?<<

>>Absolutely nothing! I tell you, I heard that first recording, and I heard the second recording - the one that Flori finally said he was content with. Conny and I listened to them, and I tell you they were identical. But Flori insists, that deep in the drum track, so quiet you cannot hear it at all amidst all the music, that there is the almost inaudible squeak of a tiny piece of metal in the apparatus of Klaus's kick drum pedal. So he drags Klaus back into the studio, and makes Conny record it all over again, and our album is to be put back for another month, and now not coming out until November.<<

>>Still> I said. >>It is exciting to have an album coming out at all. And I appreciate a man with an eye - or at least an ear - for detail.<<

>>Do you.<< Ralf suddenly seemed oddly nervous; well, he was always slightly awkward, but he seemed more nervous than usual, rubbing his hands against his trousers as if preparing himself for something. >>Look, Chan...<< he ventured, as if he were about to ask me something, but after a long day, and with the fizzy, happy drunk wearing off, his inability to pronounce my name just got on my nerves.

"Jan," I insisted. "My name is _Jan_."

His face fell as his shoulders slumped. >>Zhan<< he attempted, sounding almost French.

>>Oh never mind<< I sighed, rolling my eyes. >>What is it?<<

>>Nothing<< he said looking down at his nails, peeling flaking varnish off them. >>I should drive you home, you have school tomorrow.<< But as he drove me back to my dormitory, he parked outside my window, and once again, looked like he wanted to ask me something. >>May I drop by during the week?<<

>>Of course<< I shrugged. >>You know where I live.<< He started to lean forward towards me, his eyes drooping like he was tired, though he kept staring at my mouth.

>>You look exhausted<< I told him, opening the door and climbing out into the night. >>You better drive home while you're still awake. Where do you live, again?<<

His eyes snapped fully open, and he looked suddenly rather irritated, glaring at me resentfully as I stood on the kerb, leaning down to look at him through the open door of the car. >>I told you already. Krefeld.<<

>>That's a long way, you better get going<< I told him, and closed the door, seeing him off with a cheery wave. >>Thanks so much for the ride!<< But his face, as he drove off, was as dark as a stormcloud. Odd man, I thought to myself. Very odd man. But I would do my best to try to like him, for Florian's sake.

When I got back to my room, I found Myrthe in a state of excitement. --You know how it is a holiday next Monday, so we have a long weekend?--

\--We do?-- I asked, confused. It had never dawned on me that German bank holidays might be different than the familiar ones I was used to.

\--All Saints-- explained Myrthe. --It's a big holiday, people light bonfires, get drunk, have a big party.--

\--It's a few days early. We don't have our bonfires until the Fifth of November-- I shrugged. --But that's for Guy Fawkes, I guess.... Anyway, I suppose a day off classes is always good. Will there be a party? A bonfire at the college?--

\--Better than that-- said Myrthe, practically bouncing with excitement. --The painters have decided to have a party in the forests, go up to the woods to camp. Michael says he has friends who live out there, in a sort of commune in the countryside, and they will let us camp in their woods, and have a seriously pagan party with a bonfire, burn effigies of the politicians they hate, all that sort of thing--

\--A Forest Party?-- I asked, confused by the little I had been told about these student celebrations. --Isn't it a bit cold for camping?--

Myrthe rolled her eyes. --The Germans are tough, they will go on camping right through until the first snows. We better all bring our long johns. Do you have long johns? We will need them.--

\--We?-- I said, very doubtfully.

\--Jan, Michael has invited me to go with him. As in, go _with_ him. Camp with him.--

\--Michael?-- I asked, then remembered what she had told me about the forest parties. Shy people paired off, even _pounced_ , and sometimes apparently copulated in the woods. --Oh no-- I said. --If you two are going to do a sex, there's no way I want to be the third wheel.--

\--But don't you see-- blurted out Myrthe. --Michael and Florian are old friends, from primary school. It would make natural sense for Michael and Florian to go to Forest Party together. So you invite Florian, I go with Michael, and then we both...--

" _Bumsen,_ " I supplied.

\--Precisely!-- said Myrthe.

\--I like your plan.--

\----------

The problem was, though, trying to get Florian alone long enough to pose the question. I did see him, constantly, but the problem was I saw him constantly in the company of Ralf. Ralf had taken to dropping by my dorm rooms every evening at precisely quarter to six, as if he were somehow aware that I got out of my last class at 5.30 and needed fifteen minutes to walk home. Almost as soon as I walked in my room and switched on the lights, there would be a tap on the window as Ralf's grinning face appeared on the street below.

>>I brought dinner<< he would announce, and hold up a bag, of hummus and pita bread, or Chinese takeaway, or, if Florian was with him, curry and rice. I could not complain, as he was exceedingly generous, and usually brought more food than the two of us could eat, never asking for any payment or reciprocation in return. But at the same time, there was something of an imposition I could never quite put my finger on. How did he know I might not just be out with friends? He did, however, leave me at a decent hour, knowing that I needed to get my studying in, and would normally take off again at half seven. But maybe that was it. It didn't feel like a social call. I felt like a stopover where he ate his supper after class, and something for him to do while he waited for the rush traffic to clear before the drive back to Krefeld.

But when he brought Florian, all was forgiven. I even repainted his flaking fingernails with varnish, as a gesture of good will. Then I put a Motown record on the stereo and set out a dinner party on the floor. Florian was in a glorious mood all that week, fired up with some new musical explorations he had been attempting with Klaus. >>I have obtained a device<< he told me excitedly, scooping up sag alloo with his naan bread. >>Which alters the pitch of any sound one directs through it. Now you know I have a tenor flute. But with this electronic device, I can send the signal through a loop, and drop it a full octave - my tenor flute becomes a bass flute. A sub-bass flute. Now an actual sub-bass flute, it would be a monster, huge, too big for me to play. But with electronic manipulation, I can play two flutes at once. My melody, and a bassline at the same time.<<

>>That's amazing, I can't wait to hear it<< I told him. >>Does it only work at the octave, though, or could you set it for any interval?<<

>>Oh yes, you can tune it. I could set it to play at fifths, or at thirds, or maybe even at some strange dissonant harmonic, like that out of tune police motorcycle who rides through your neighbourhood at night.<< He grinned maniacally at this idea.

>>I'd like to hear you take over some of the bass>. Ralf teased. >>It might free up my left hand to do more filter sweeps on my brand new MiniMoog.<<

>>MiniMoog?<< I asked, then gestured to a half bottle of wine that I had left over. >>Would you like a drink.<<

Ralf shook his head >>I still have to drive home<< but Florian accepted a glass gratefully.

>>You will drop me in Golzheim on the way?<< he checked.

>>Of course<< said Ralf, even as I hoped that just once, he might have to rush off and leave Florian stranded, so that he would have to spend the night illicitly in my dorm room. >>A MiniMoog, since you ask, Chan, is very new, very advanced - a synthesiser the size of... well, a little bigger than a breadbox.<<

>>It has fantastic bass response<< Florian observed. >>Perhaps your left hand will get a workout after all.<<

>>The bass is always the most important part of music, I find<< I mused. >>So few rock bands pay it proper attention.<<

>>It's the glue that holds music together<< insisted Ralf. >>The binding between the melody and the rhythm section. The melody is for the ears and the brain; the drums are for dancing.<<

>>It's more than that, though.<< I paused, listening to my Diana Ross and the Supremes record playing gently in the background, with that urgent pulse of a bass. >>When you listen to Black American music, when you listen to Rhythm and Blues, and to Soul, it's the bass that actually moves you, the bass that makes you want to dance. People think it's the drums, but it isn't, it's the bass. The drums only make the knees and feet tap, like for marching. It's the bass that reaches to the pelvis, to the hips. That makes you swing.<<

>>Don't let Klaus hear you saying that, but really... I agree.<< Florian's face split open in that devilish mad scientist grin. >>It is the bass that has the particular resonance that affects the...<< There was a German word I didn't catch, but from the way that Ralf turned slightly red and looked down, his eyelashes fluttering, I had an idea what he meant. Oh. So Ralf was one of those boys who could dish out double entendres at women, but could not take it when the tables were turned?

>>The what?<< I asked, pretending to be innocent as I smiled at Florian.

>>The... how do you say in English...<< He leaned in closer, gesturing down towards his impossibly slender hips. "The genitals."

>>Flori!<< exclaimed Ralf. >>We are in mixed company! I am so sorry, Chan. He is forever blurting out the most inappropriate things.<< said the man who had, in mixed company, once described my arse as a melon he wished to penetrate. He admonished Florian apparently without a hint of irony, in fact his discomfort looked entirely genuine.

But Florian and I, for once, were looking directly into one another's eyes, leaning towards one another slightly, as if we both understood perfectly well what our topic of conversation was about. >>I have always been very interested in the physical effects of sound, at great volume. Different pitches have different resonances in the human body<< he continued. >>The effect of space and transmission media upon sound, whether that's air, or water, or metals... or _meat_. Our bodies respond in different ways to different pitches. The treble is very cerebral, almost spiritual. Certain tones, especially of flute, or bells, can produce an almost transcendental experience. However, at the low end... << His eyes glinted as his smile widened. >>I have always been distinctly interested in the erotic possibilities of bass.<<

Ralf stood up abruptly, looking very uncomfortable with the turn that the conversation had taken. This really was very unlike him! I had never known him to be a prude, and had no idea where his discomfort was coming from, this man who waggled his eyebrows at Myrthe as he suggested we drink _screwdrivers_.  >>I need a cup of coffee<< he announced. >>Flori do you need a cup of coffee? Will you come with me to the kitchen?<<

>>You know where the kitchenette is<< I told him, wishing to high heaven that he would piss off and leave Florian and I to talk alone. After several weeks of visiting, the guard had grown so familiar with them stalking about the halls that he had almost come to believe that the pair of them must have lived in the international boys' hall on the top floor.

>>Fine!<< said Ralf, and went out, banging the door loudly. Of course the inconsiderate berk hadn't asked if I wanted coffee.

>>Do you know<< I said softly, not taking my gaze from Florian's ice-blue eyes. >>When my friend Valerie and I used to go to the UFO club in London, I always made a special point to seek out the bass speakers. When they were at the Roundhouse, they had special freestanding speakers they dotted all about the space, and me and Valerie, if we could, we used to sit on the bass speakers, so we didn't just hear the music, we physically felt it, as well.<<

>>What did it feel like?<< Florian almost whispered, his eyes so interested I could barely stand to look at them, yet did not dare to look away.

>>The vibrations were... very intense. You could feel it going all up and down your spine, realigning all your bones, making all of your nerves sizzle. And sometimes...<<

>>Sometimes?<< he probed, his lips twitching up in that irresistible smile.

>>Other places?<< I could barely believe that I could be so bold.

>>Tell me, is it true? The effect that bass vibrations are reported to have, on the female physiology?<<

It was my turn to break his gaze and look down, feeling my face blushing as I tried to nod.

>>Wow<< said Florian, raising one eyebrow. >>No wonder you were trying to climb inside our bass cabinet the night that we met.<<

I nodded slowly, then risked a glance up at his face, to find him watching me with careful amusement. The record on the stereo had run out, and it was so quiet in my room, I could actually hear him breathing, slightly laboured, his shirt moving as his chest heaved up and down.

Come on, Jan, it's now or never. Just ask him! I took a deep breath, even as I found myself leaning forward towards him, staring at his thin but supple lips, remembering how they had worked against the flute as he played, and wondering how strong they would be to kiss. >>So have you heard<< I forced myself to say. >>Some of our fellow art students are planning to go out to the woods, and have a bonfire for the upcoming holiday. What did Myrthe call it?<<

>>All Saints?<< supplied Florian.

>>Yes. One of those... what did she say. A Forest-Party. I don't have a tent, but I'd like to go camping with them. It sounds like fun. All sorts of people you know will be there... Michael... Emil... why don't you come, too?<<

>> _Forest-Party_? << said Florian, with an amused expression I couldn't quite tell the meaning of, if he was making fun of my incorrect use of the expression or if he were alluding to the somewhat carnal implication that Myrthe had cast on the tradition.

But at that, most importune moment, the door to my room opened, and Ralf reappeared, carrying a steaming mug of coffee.

The moment between Florian and I was utterly broken, as he looked up at his best friend, and grinned widely. >>Ralf, did you hear? Emil and the Kunstakademie gang are going to the woods for their All Saints bonfire. Shall we go with them?<<

I looked back at Florian panicking, trying to shake my head, trying to catch his eye, trying to mouth the word _no_ at him. No, no. Just you, Flori. Ralf is not invited. Just for the once, can you and I just do something alone, without Ralf? But it was too late.

Ralf appeared overjoyed as he sat on the floor between us. >>What a splendid idea! I have a very warm, waterproof, all-weather tent - it sleeps four, no problem. You are welcome to bunk there, Chan. Shall we drive up in my Beetle, just the three of us? Won't that be cosy.<<

Florian beamed, delighted. >>Well, that's settled then. I'm so pleased! What fun we will have. I love a good _forest-party_. << Again, he pronounced the word as if I had said something amusingly incorrect, leaving me with a vague sense of unease.

>>What?<< I said.

Again, that bemused smile. >>It is very cute, this habit you have of taking words that are not compounded, and making compounds of them. We would just go to a party in the woods. You go to a _forest-party_. It sounds like a magical thing. As if the forest, itself, is having the celebration <<

>>I hope it is a magical thing<< I said, biting my lip gently as I stared at Florian, who had looked away and was smiling sheepishly towards Ralf.

>>Well, I am very experienced at camping<< interrupted Ralf, and I tried not to glare at him, because technically what he was offering was very kind - after all, I had no tent or equipment - but it irked me, the way he always claimed to be superior at everything. >>I hope we can make your _forest-party_ magical. <<

The next day I fled to Silke's dorm. This was not something I could raise delicately with Myrthe - I needed Silke's sexual expertise. "Contraceptives!" I blurted out as I entered her room. >>Where, in Germany, can I get the pill that makes you not have a baby?<<

Silke smiled knowingly. >>There is a clinic, near the Red Light District. We can go there, I will show you what to do.<<

>>Thank you<< I almost sighed with relief.

>>But it comes at a price<< she warned.

>>Oh god, Silke, don't make me do something awful!<<

>>It is not awful. You know we have an end-of-term show, before we break for Christmas. I will have to show the outfits I have been working on for my degree. The outfits will look much better with you wearing them, than with me...<<

>>No!<< I said, horrified at the idea of having to get up in front of people and trot about, exposing myself.

>>Then I don't take you to the clinic, and there is no _Bumsen_ with Florian without making little Schneider-Eslebens. <<

Putting my head into my hands with embarrassment, I nodded slowly. >>Alright, I'll do it.<<


	11. Blow Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf and Florian and Jan head to the Forest-Party with the rest of the students, but Ralf's little grey Volkswagen has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My girlfriend in high school drove a steady line of VW Beetles. Absolute pieces of shit, those cars. I have never spent so much time in my life sitting by the side of the road, waiting for tow trucks. So if it seems like "Ralf's car breaks down" is an overused plot device in this story, well, IT'S COMPLETELY ACCURATE FOR THOSE PIECES OF SCHEISS...

We had originally planned to all drive up to the forest campsite in a convoy on Friday afternoon. But Emil turned up in a small, two-seater sportscar he had borrowed from who knows where, persuaded Silke to join him in it, then roared away. Klaus arrived with his van, and we dumped all of our equipment - and true to his word, Ralf had a great deal of equipment - in the back. A couple of the painters got in with him, but none of the girls dared risk it. No, they were waiting for a more elegant ride.

Around the corner came a large VW bus, painted all the colours of the rainbow, with groovy psychedelic letters on the side declaring "Spirits of Sound". In the front seats sat Michael, and another man I didn't recognise, though he might have been one of the prettiest men I had seen since I had arrived in Germany, with his floppy black hair and his soft brown eyes, ringed all about with exceptionally long lashes that brushed his impossibly high cheekbones.

But alas, when he stepped out of the drivers' seat, I realised he barely came up to my armpit! Michael's handsome friend was a dwarf, though that didn't stop the other, shorter girls from crowding round him, begging for a ride in the psychedelic bus.

>>Excuse me, mein Herr<< he asked as he passed me. >>May I squeeze by?<<

I glared at him, though I did step back. >>I am not a _Herr_? << I snapped, and he turned back to face me, and did an almost comical double-take as I took off my heavy masculine coat and stuffed it into the bag in the back of Klaus's van, revealing a pair of long female legs in wool tights.

>>No, that's obvious. My apologies, _Fraulein_ << he said, in that slightly unctuous tone of men who think they are very successful with women. >>Do you need a lift up to the campsite? We have more than enough room in the Bus of Sound.<<

>>She's riding with us<< said Ralf very quickly, stepping forward between us. The two men looked at each other for a few seconds as if sizing one another up, Ralf's chin pointing aggressively towards the newcomer, even as I felt the newcomer not really looking at Ralf but still very definitely looking me over, checking me out.

I shook my head, and went over to stand by Florian, even as Michael slid the door open to the rear of the bus, to allow Myrthe and her friends to jump in. >>See you up there<< I called to Myrthe, as we walked off to the Beetle. Fortunately, in order to bring the tent, Ralf had actually cleaned out all of the rubbish and the books and magazines from the back seat, so there was room for one of us to sit there. Florian made a great show of squeezing in back there, so that I could have the front seat.

As Spirits of Sounds' bus drove off, leaving behind it a trail of girlish giggles, Ralf started the ignition and again carefully revved the engine to warm up his beloved Volkswagen. Honestly, the care he took over that car, it was as if it were his actual baby instead of just his pride and joy. Florian reached between the seats to turn on the radio - I was quite shocked at how long his arms were - and soon found some jaunty classical music, good for driving. The sun was shining, and it was an unseasonably warm autumn day, and I felt completely elated to be heading off into the countryside with two of my closest friends. One of whom, I hoped to become a great deal closer to, even as he rested his sharp chin on the back of my seat like an impatient Alsatian, so he could hear what Ralf and I were discussing over the steady purr of the engine.

Finally, Ralf was convinced that the car was ready, put the indicator on, and pulled out onto our journey. The first hour of the drive was one of the happiest of my life, as all three of us were in good spirits, laughing and chatting as Florian kept up a steady commentary of diverting conversational topics from the back seat. About twenty minutes into the journey, much to Ralf's amusement, we overtook the Bus Of Sounds on the Autobahn, going very slowly due to the weight of all the extra passengers in the back seats. Ralf pulled up next to it with ease, hooted the horn jauntily, twice, and waved at the driver with the most supercilious grin before kicking the Beetle up another gear. We roared out ahead of them with ease, even as Ralf muttered >>Neanderthal<< to himself.

With the sun shining, the music playing, and the breeze ruffling my hair, the three of us fell into an easy camaraderie. I had been working so hard since I had got to school, that I had forgotten how important it was to take time off for a holiday, and I was looking forward to seeing these majestic woods and these pagan bonfires I had heard so much about. So happy that I was lazing back in my seat, and almost didn't notice the muffled bang until the car lurched like a drunken student, and started to skid into the next lane of traffic.

Pulling his head back sharply, Ralf struggled with the steering wheel, jerking it to try to pull the car straight, which only made the slide worse, as we left our lane and went veering into the lane of an HGV that was roaring down the side of the valley at over 120 kilometres an hour. Letting out a sharp cry, Ralf let go of the steering wheel and raised both elbows in front of his face to protect himself as the car went out of his control

"Steer into the direction of the skid!" I shouted at him, reaching over and taking hold of the steering wheel, wrenching it in the opposite direction.

>>Are you crazy?<< The HGV loomed closer in the mirror, hooting like some prehistoric beast. But as the steering wheel hit the angle of the skid, the tyres reengaged with the road, and the car shot forward. Ralf squealed like a little girl, but put his foot on the accelerator, seized the wheel and nipped in front of the HGV, only a few metres from disaster, then coasted to a stop on the hard shoulder, as the lorry roared by us at deafening speed.

Only when the car had come to a complete stop did I dare to breathe again. Ralf was as white as a sheet, and breathing very heavily, his hair suddenly plastered to his forehead with cold sweat. >>Is everybody alright?<< he asked, with a shaky voice.

>>And all this time, you have been boasting what a better driver you are than me<< snorted Flori from the back seat, picking himself up stiffly from the corner where he had been thrown.

>>If you had been driving we would both be dead<< said Ralf in a flat, matter of fact voice. >>In fact, if Chan had not been in the car, we would all be dead.<< I realised at that point, how badly his hands were shaking.

>>What happened<< I asked, looking about the car, then glancing out the window to make sure it was OK to open my door,

>>I don't know.<< He waited for a car to go by, then stepped out of the car himself.

I knew VWs' engines were in the back, so I walked around to check for smoke, as Florian unfolded himself from the back seat. But as I reached the back of the car, I knew there was no need to even open the engine compartment that Ralf had bent down to inspect. >>Oh no. Look at this.<<

The three of us stared down at the wheel. The tyre had completely blown out, with shreds of rubber and fibre clinging to the rim of the wheel, which had warped and and become misshapen from taking the brunt of the car's weight during the terrifying skid. >>Do you have a spare?<< I asked.

>>I do, but...<< He nudged the bent metal frame cautiously with his foot. >>The wheel is so badly damaged we will never get the broken tyre off without mechanical equipment I don't have.<<

>>So what do we do?<< asked Florian. >>Set up camp here? It is quite a pretty spot, well, except for the traffic.<< He gestured down towards a sheltered woodland glade below the motorway.

>>Klaus has our tent<< I reminded him, punching him gently in the arm.

He punched me back just as gently. >>Maybe I will build you a tent, of shredded tyre fragments and slashed up bits of Ralf's upholstery.<<

But Ralf was on the hard shoulder, staring pragmatically into the distance, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. >>Given which exit we just passed, I know there is a service station about ten kilometres down the road. How long would it take to walk ten kilometres?<<

>>At least two hours<< sighed Florian, sitting back on the bonnet of the car.

>>We could hitchhike<< I suggested.

Ralf shook his head mournfully. >>There are three of us. No one will pick us up.<<

>>They might pick her up<< suggested Florian, gesturing towards me with his head >>Pretty girl with a broken-down car? Someone will stop in seconds.<<

I grinned, liking the idea that he thought I was pretty. >>I'll give it a go. You two, crouch down behind the car in the long grass.<<

The first couple of cars didn't even slow. But then I thought pragmatically, and hitched my miniskirt a little higher up my waist so that my legs showed above my knees. Sure enough, about five minutes later, the next car I waved at finally slowed down and pulled in, about fifty yards ahead. With a wave back towards the boys, I broke into a trot towards it - there was only a driver in the car, he had plenty of room for all three of us. But as soon as the driver caught sight of Ralf and Florian, with their long hair and their art student clothes, I heard him rev the engine, and he pulled away in a cloud of dust.

>>Damn<< I said, walking back towards the car, but as I hitched up my skirt and stuck my thumb out again, I caught sight of a brightly coloured object in the distance. >>Oh, hello.<<

>>Oh no<< groaned Ralf, as the Bus of Sounds drew slowly into view, the fuzzy sounds of Jimi Hendrix quite audible from inside, even at a distance. >>Anyone but them.<<

Sure enough, the bus pulled up behind our disabled vehicle, and the short but handsome dwarf hopped down from the drivers' seat. >>Hallo, Ralf. Hallo, Florian. Are you having car trouble?<<

>>Yes, Wolfgang, well, it certainly looks like it, doesn't it?<< sneered Ralf.

>>We've had a blow-out<< said Florian, slightly more diplomatically.

Wolfgang crouched down next to the shredded tyre, as Jimi Hendrix gave way to Sunshine Of Your Love. >>God in heaven, you're going nowhere on this. If I had my metal-working tools with me, maybe I could... but no. I tossed them back in the garage to make more room for the girls.<< His head turned to the side, as if noticing a female leg beside him, and I saw those soft, dark, lecherous eyes followed the line of my leg to where it disappeared beneath my miniskirt.

I glared at him and tugged the skirt downwards, even as the knowledge filtered through my brain, some gossip from somewhere, telling me that if this was Wolfgang from Spirits of Sound, he was reputed to have an _enormous_ penis.

Wolfgang straightened up and leaned against the side of the Beetle, probably hoping that he didn't look quite so short when he was sitting down. >>Now maybe if I had some extra space in the van, I could offer one of you a lift to the nearest service station...<< Tilting his head, he raised an eyebrow at me. I shot him down with a fierce glare. >>But I don't.<<

He turned on his heels - slightly stacked Cuban heels in an attempt to gain more height, I noticed cattily - and headed back towards his van, but Michael had slid open the rear door and was gazing out at us. >>What's the matter.<<

>>Car trouble<< said Wolfgang. >>We have no space to give them a lift to the service station, so we'll just have to pass on the message... if we remember.<<

>>Wait, wait<< said Michael, pushing his long hair out of his kind eyes. >>We have room. If Myrthe sits on my lap, we can carry one more.<< Myrthe looked like she was going to explode with happiness, as Ralf and Florian exchanged mysterious looks.

>>Jan should go<< Florian immediately said, ever the gentleman.

>>And what is Jan going to do, in a remote service station, in rural Germany?<< said Ralf.

>>Hang on, I know just as much about engines as you two do. I've flown planes, remember? You have to have a basic grasp of mechanics to service planes, on your own, in the bush.<< I pointed out.

>>I know that<< said Ralf. >>And Flori knows that. But some backwards villager in rural Germany is never going to believe that. No, it's not safe for you to go on your own.<< I rolled my eyes, waiting for him to volunteer for the service. But at least, then, I would be left alone with Florian and could make my move. >>Flori will go.<<

>>What<< Even Florian seemed confused by this instruction. >>But it's your car.<<

The two of them withdrew for a few minutes, having an animated conversation halfway down the grassy verge, out of hearing but not out of sight. A couple of times, they seemed to stop, and look up at me - not at the car or the van, but very directly at me - then fell back to quietly arguing. Finally, Florian shrugged, then the pair of them shook hands, and climbed back up towards us.

>>Florian will go to the next village, and fetch help from the service station. I will stay here with Chan.<< announced Ralf.

I wanted to protest, as Florian climbed into the back of the van, squeezing in next to Michael, with Myrthe softly giggling on his lap. But I was tired and thirsty, so I waved goodbye and climbed in the back of the Beetle, looking for the food and drink we'd stashed back there for the journey. Florian had somehow managed to demolish the entire packet of biscuits without anyone noticing, but there was a thermos of coffee and two bottles of lemonade. I handed the thermos to Ralf and took a lemonade for myself. Feeling much more nervous now we were on our own, I switched back to English as somehow safer. "It's too warm to sit in the car when it's not moving. Let's sit on the grass."

"Well" said Ralf, pulling off his leather jacket and spreading it out over the ground for me to sit on. "We can pretend it's a picnic." For some strange reason, he didn't seem that upset about the car since Florian had left, and he dropped down next to me on the jacket with a smile.

Well, at least he was in a good mood. If Ralf had started throwing a tantrum, I would have been perfectly happy to just walk the ten kilometres to the next village. "How long have you had the car?" I asked, casting about for some topic of conversation. "Has it ever done this before?"

Ralf shook his head mournfully. "No. And now is two... no, three years since I have had this car. I received this gift for the 21st birthday, and it is nearly 2 months since the 24th."

I looked at him carefully. He was older than he looked, his boyish face belying the fact that he was nearly six years older than myself. I had thought him no more than 20, and suddenly started to worry if behaviour I had written off to immaturity was actually the sign of actual character flaws. Being around someone so much older made me feel very young, and so I bent down to start picking daisies to make a chain. "A birthday present?" I had not realised that he was as wealthy as the Schneider-Eslebens, if his parents thought nothing of buying him a car for his birthday.

"No, the car I bought with my own money. I asked for my organ for my birthday present. Still, the best present I have ever had, though I had to beg my father to have it. My father does not approve of music or musicians, so he wanted to buy the car. But it was important to me, to buy my own car. You see, I thought the car would bring me freedom. But really, it was the organ."

"How so?" I was puzzled now, intrigued by this statement, which seemed like one of the few personal things he had ever told me, about his youth, about his family, about anything.

"Studying on the organ, taking classes in improvisation for music, well, that was the thing that introduced me to Flori. And Flori changed my life. Now it is two years, I have never been the same person again."

"You only met Florian two years ago?" I asked, surprised. "You act as if you two have known one another your whole lives. I assumed you went to high school together or something."

Ralf shook his head, and sipped his coffee. "No, only two years. Flori went to school with Michael - they have known each other forever. But I went to school in Krefeld."

"What were you like in high school?" I wondered aloud.

Ralf winced. "I was, as the Americans say, a _dork_. What was it that Myrthe called you? A little swot. I got good grades, and had no social life. None at all. Well, I played in bands, yes, as a way of getting invited to parties. But I was too shy to talk to anyone - until I met Flori. And Flori was even shyer than me! He was such a weirdo - he was so strange he made me feel normal. But my god, what music he could make! I had never heard anyone play like Flori, so unrestrained, so free! I We were in a class together - musical improvisation. I tell you, Flori should have been teaching that class, not learning. And there was me on my organ, playing my little Beatles songs and my little Beach Boys songs, and here is Flori with his flute, playing his music from outer space. We played together and... well, something magical happened. I forgot my shyness. Playing music with Flori was a form of talking that went deeper than words. I think I fell a little bit in love with Flori that day, but then again, everyone who meets Flori falls a little bit in love with him. He never notices." He said this with a pointed glance towards me. "But once we talked through music, we found it was easier to talk in words, too. It was like in that Hermann Hesse novel we spoke of - I had met my soul mate. And when two lonely souls come together in perfect harmony and friendship, the whole world feels like home, at least for a time."

I turned and gaped at Ralf, thinking how this oddly echoed another conversation I'd had recently, in a beergarden near Neanderthal. "I never really believed in soul mates"" I confessed. "But how nice it must be to have Flori for one."

Ralf laughed. "Do you think that people can have more than one soul mate?"

"What even is a soul?" I replied. "Do you think that people have one internal, unchanging character, that is all they are? Or do you think that people are situational, and change from day to day, from moment to moment, depending on where they are, who they are speaking to, and what about?"

"I think there is something that is... how do you say? Not-changing, beneath all that."

"Unchanging" I corrected softly, and hated myself for doing it.

"Unchanging." He tried the word out carefully on his tongue, then shook his head. "And that quality of yourself that does not change, that is your soul. The truth that looks the same from all angles."

"If that is the case, then there is no such thing as Truth, either" I laughed, and impetuously tried to place the daisy chain around his neck. But his head was bigger than I had expected, and the necklace would not slip over it, so I just draped it over his hair like a crown. 

"You are playing games with the English, I think," he grumbled, adjusting the flower crown as if it were a hat.

"If you work with computers for long enough, you know this. Asking the same questions in different ways, in different orders of commands, it gives you different answers. From a computer! Who is incapable of lying."

He grinned slyly. "What makes you think computers are incapable of lying?"

"They only say what we program them to say... which is the annoying part, when your code is all wrong." I laughed. "I suppose you could programme a computer to lie, though. But doesn't it take self awareness to be duplicitous enough to actually lie, as opposed to just repeating a lie?"

"We are both of us teaching computers to have imaginations, which, in a small way, is like teaching computers to lie."

"But teaching someone to have an imagination is not the same as teaching them to lie," I protested.

"It is to a computer. It's teaching them to tell stories. To make things up. Which is the essence of lying."

"It's not the making things up that comprises lying, it's the intent to deceive," I insisted.

"Intent does not even come into it. What is intent, to a computer? We are talking apples and oranges."

"That's my whole point. You're being ridiculous," I said, standing up, and brushing pollen off my skirt. We had been sitting down for so long that my legs had started to go to sleep. "Oh, look. Here comes the tow truck." I went and stood by the shoulder and waved it down, though we were the only broken-down car in sight. But when I looked into the cab, I as surprised to see the driver alone. >>Hello, where's Florian?<<

>>Your friend? Oh, he said he was going on to the campsite to pitch your tent. A nuisance, as I damned near missed you. Had to drive all the way to the next exit, then turn around and come back.<< He explained as he climbed out of the truck, in a thick accent I could barely understand. >>Ah yes, I see what's happened. I'm going to have to back the truck around, and tow your car from behind.<<

It was a delicate manoeuvre, and required driving the truck across all three lanes of traffic to turn around not once, but twice, the second time with the injured Beetle in tow. I wanted to ride in the car, but the driver wouldn't let us, so Ralf and I both piled into the narrow front seat of the tow-truck, trying hard not to jostle one another. He had to put his arm around my shoulders and cling on to stop himself from falling down into the well with the gear shaft, as I clung to the handle of the door, but I did my best not to object when centrifugal force threw him into me as we took a curve in the road.

>>Flower children, that's what they call you, isn't it?<< laughed the driver, and Ralf self-consciously reached for the daisies in his hair, swiftly removing them. >>What are all you Düsseldorf hippies doing all the way out here?<<

>>We are going to a bonfire, up in the forest<< Ralf explained.

>>Not tonight, you're not<< the driver said, as we finally drove down a side-road into a small village. >>Looks like Freder has shut up shot for the evening - probably off down the beer hall knowing him, har har har.<<

>>But what about my car?<< Ralf asked, glancing backwards over his shoulder to the injured Beetle dangling from the back of the truck.

>>Oh, don't worry, he'll fix it right and proper in the morning, I'll see to that. But for tonight, you're going nowhere.<<

>>We don't have the tent.<< I reminded Ralf, starting to panic a little.

>>Is there a hotel?<< Ralf asked the other man.

>>Not in the village<< replied the driver, backing the VW into the forecourt of a service station. >>If you go a little further, up into the hills, there's a nature-park with a chalet. They'll find you a room.<<

>>Can you drive us there?<< Ralf demanded imperiously, and honestly, if he'd just let me ask, I could handled it more smoothly, but the driver just nodded.

>>Sure, but I'll just tack on a few more DM to your bill.<<

>>Of course.<< I could see Ralf physically swallow his resentment, as he turned back to me. >>Well. It looks like you and I, at least, will not be roughing it tonight.<<


	12. Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stranded together at a hotel for the night, Jan finds that Ralf actually starts to open up to her, and finds herself liking him against her better judgement. But as she lets her guard down with him, he takes advantage of their intimacy.
> 
> TW: this chapter contains a pretty graphic depiction of the most dubious of dub-con. I hope it is not gratuitous (the mood I was intending to strike was "intensely awkward") but it may be triggering for some readers.
> 
> This is fiction. These are fictional characters. They and their actions are in no way intended as accurate or historical impressions of living people. No offence is intended. Please read the notes at the end of the chapter.

It was a beautiful hotel, a few miles out of town, in a cleft between two massive bergs, with a long, sloping meadow leading up into the sky. Ralf told me this area, which was known for its natural beauty, became densely packed with hikers and holiday-makers in the summer. The old-fashioned wooden hotel, with its steep roofs and its overhanging layers, well, it intimidated me a little. It looked very expensive.

>>I'm not sure I can afford this<< I said as we walked into the lobby, all dark wood and deep, plush carpets. In the far corner, a real log fire was blazing in a huge, medieval looking fireplace.

>>Don't worry, I'll pay for the room<< said Ralf, guiding me towards the fire. >>Sit here and warm up. I'll arrange it.<<

As we walked into the glowing, golden circle of the log fire, I realised the temperature had dropped sharply since the sun had gone down. And we had been planning on camping in this weather? But then again, maybe it was colder up here on the ridge, and the forest was more protected. But as Ralf walked back to the reception area, something struck me. He had said _room_ , not rooms. >>Make sure you get twin beds!<< I called out after him. He turned and nodded to me to indicate that he had heard me - I saw him do it, or I'd have gone with him to make sure.

But abruptly a beautiful young woman dressed in traditional garb appeared at my elbow so silently that I wondered if she had glided in on oiled wheels. But no, it was the thickness of the carpet muffling her footfalls. >>Coffee, tea, mulled wine?<< she offered politely. I must have looked panic-struck, as she swiftly added. >>Gratuity, of course.<<

>>Ooh<< I said, remembering how much I loved the richly spiced taste of mulled wine from Christmas parties of childhood. My father allowed me half a glass, to warm me up after carolling. >>Mulled wine, please. Though I expect Herr Hütter will want his coffee.<<

>>Milk and sugar for Herr Hütter?<<

>>Milk, no sugar please.<< I had heard Ralf, who had started to become self-conscious about his weight, repeat the order a hundred times. >>And steamed milk, if it is possible.<<

>>Right. One coffee for Herr Hütter, milk, no sugar; one mulled wine for Frau Hütter.<<

I almost burst out laughing, and was about to protest "Nooooooo..." at even the thought of being married to a man like Ralf, but then I stopped myself, remembering how the driver had laughed at us 'flower children'. It was a very expensive hotel, in what Ralf had warned me was a very conservative, rural part of Germany, and if they thought Ralf and I were unwed lovers, rather than just platonic friends, they might never let us stay in the same room. I could not afford my own room, so I stayed silent on the matter. >>That's right.<< I smiled brightly at her, and she glided away over the thick shag rug.

Ralf grinned as he walked back towards me, holding up a large, ornate keyring. >>It's all sorted<< he told me as he slid into the inglenook next to me. >>They even said they would send a car to take us back to the service station in the morning. So, since we are stranded, would you like to get dinner?<< I was about to protest that I could not afford dinner when he smiled generously, stretching his skinny leather-clad legs out towards the fire. >>My treat.<< It didn't occur to me to wonder why he was being so nice to me.

The waitress reappeared with coffee and mulled wine, handed the wine to me, and the coffee to my companion. >>No sugar, but with steamed milk<< she told him briskly and efficiently.

Ralf turned to me and smiled. >>You remembered.<<

>>You are very fussy.<<

>>I am not; I am very easy to please!<<

>>You are nothing of the sort!<< I pointed out. >>I have seen you send back asparagus because it was over-steamed.<<

The waitress smiled and left us, more than adequately convinced that we were a long-married couple. It was not even my argument, it was an argument that I had seen Ralf and Florian re-enact half a dozen times, but somehow it amused me to take Florian's part in it for a change. Both of us smiled at one another, then sipped. The wine was absolutely delicious, and warmed me even more than the fire, but I realised quickly that it was much stronger than I was used to. I think, perhaps my father used to water mine down with juice when I was a child.

I didn't actually mind being slightly fuzzy and drunk, in fact it was pleasant to relax and let my guard down by the warmth of the fire. Ralf was being uncommonly agreeable, as if trying to prove that he was not fussy, or overly shy, telling me about childhood holidays, skiing trips in the Alps. I did not think we were anywhere near the Alps, as the car had been travelling steadily Northeast since leaving Düsseldorf, but I found this chatty Ralf so much easier to deal with than sullen, silent Ralf that I did not dare contradict him.

At first he had been afraid of skiing, he told me. >>The speed alarmed me at first, but my father insisted that I had had enough practice, on the little slope they call the bunny-hop. He wanted me to go on the larger slope, ride up on the ski-lift with him. But I was terribly afraid of heights at that point, you see. I appealed to my mother, but my mother was a very good skier, and thought I was making a fuss out of nothing. Stop being such a baby, she tells me. Do what your father tells you.<<

>>How old were you?<< I asked. It was the sort of thing my own mother would never have said. Although she did encourage me to show more independence, the idea of appealing to my father would have seemed ludicrous to her.

>>Perhaps 5 or 6?<< said Ralf, as if having trouble remembering. >>Old enough to know better, in any case.<<

I stared at him, trying to imagine a small, blond-haired boy teetering above a fearful precipice of snow. >>And what happened?<<

>>I cried when my father took me on the ski lift for the first time. I am a little ashamed to remember it.<< Ralf flushed, or perhaps it was only from the fire, as he pushed his long hair back from his forehead. >>I cried so much that we got off halfway up, and did not go all the way to the peak. My father was very firm with me, but I showed him. I skied all the way down, and did not fall over even once. And the next time, I swallowed my fear, and rode all the way to the top. I had fallen in love, you see, with the sense of speed, with the sense of oneness with the whitened world that you feel, how the terrain transmits itself to your nerves through your skis. It is the next best thing to flying. I longed to go faster - and faster still! I showed my father; I became very good at it, hoping he would be proud of me. By the time I was 13, I had grown, put on some weight so I could gather momentum, instead of skirting over the surface like a sparrow. At 14, I could beat him.<< He smiled mischievously at the memory, that genuine little-boy smile I was starting to view with some affection.

>>Do you still ski?<<

A sad expression came across his face, as he shook his head wistfully. >>Not so much, any more. When I was 15, we started holidaying in the South of France, instead of the Alps. My father said it was for my mother's health, that she could not withstand the cold. But I always wondered. Was it because I had beaten my father at the ski race?<<

I looked at him carefully, trying to understand him. Men and their relationships with their fathers always seemed so complicated, and for a moment, I thought of Paul Schneider-Esleben haranguing Michael and Florian back at the party. My relationship with my own father was simple. He was a computer programmer, and I think really, he desired me to be anything _but_ a computer programmer. In truth, I think my father would have liked a son, but there was me, this tall, gangling girl, obsessed with his punchcards and the silvery liquid of his mercury delay line memory.

My mother; now we argued, we argued like cats and dogs, operatic, high-volume arguments all about the house. My mother wanted me to settle down and marry one of her second husband's cousins, merge our property in the Orange Free State with theirs in the Northern Cape, become a single, consolidated, prosperous mining family. And yet I could not stop myself, like a moth drawn to a flame, from flitting to England, and my father's research.

But I did not say any of this to Ralf, at least not then, because my German was not good enough, and I was afraid he would laugh at me if I accidentally slipped into a Dutch word instead of the German. Instead, I nodded like I understood, and said >>You and Florian, the both of you. You seem to have such complex relationships with your fathers. Is that why you love each other so much, because things are simpler between the two of you?<<

The warm smile broke over his face again like a wave breaking on a beach. >>Yes, I think so. Flori was the first person I never had to explain anything to; he just knew. I never had to explain to Flori why music was so important to me, why I was so driven, so compelled to make it. He just knew. And I never had to explain to Flori why it was that although I loved my father, and I tried hard to be a dutiful, loving son, that I also resented him and rebelled against him on every occasion.<<

Reaching out, I put my hand on his, and squeezed gently, resolving to be kinder to Ralf, and not just for Florian's sake. >>You two are so good for one another.<<

Ralf looked up, and rewarded me with another smile, gazing at me from above the rims of his glasses.>>I think so, yes,<< But then he paused, as if embarrassed, and looked away, towards the entry to the dining room. >>We should go to dinner now. They will be waiting for us.<<

As we stood up and walked through, we passed a row of telephone booths set into the wall. >>Should we try to ring ahead to the commune, let them know that we are safe, and that we will be coming tomorrow?<<

He merely shrugged, and looked at me as if I were quite stupid. >>There is no telephone in the middle of the forest<< he explained quite rationally, though I did not like the tone of voice he took with me.

We ordered a bottle of wine with dinner, Ralf making a bit of a big deal over it, as he poured over the wine list. Clearly, someone had made an effort to teach him about wine, though he was not much of a drinker. >>Obviously, I would prefer a nice Rhineland wine, though you may have other ideas about wine from the Cape?<< he teased as he looked over at me.

>>Would you prefer red or white?<< the waitress asked diplomatically. >>As you have ordered only vegetables, I would suggest a white but since Frau Hütter has been drinking mulled red wine...<<

Ralf looked over at me and smirked at the _Frau Hütter_ , raising one eyebrow in amusement. >>I believe Frau Hütter and I will be content with a nice Rhineland Riesling.<<

Of course, Ralf was most taken with this little Frau Hütter joke, and did not want to stop calling me this through the meal. I managed to drink enough wine that I was amused instead of annoyed at this - in fact, I seemed to drink most of the wine, as Ralf sipped at his only slowly, and as soon as the main course was over, he asked for a cup of coffee while I had dessert.

He smiled at the desert, though he himself had demurred. >>It is good for you to eat. I like a girl with a healthy appetite. You are too thin; hopefully the strudel will plump up your curves nicely.<<

I glared at him, and I was tempted to put my spoon down, and cease eating, but the strudel was too tasty. Instead, I remained silent. It was usually the best tactic to pursue when Ralf was being annoying. Reaching for the wine-bottle, I up-ended it deliberately over my glass, inconsiderately not even offering to refill his glass.

And so I was ever so slightly sauced as we climbed the grand staircase up to our room. Away from the warmth of the kitchen and the great fire in the reception hall, I found the air was more than slightly chilly, and for the first time, I was glad that we were staying in this grand hotel, and not in a tent on the mountainside, though Ralf had assured me that the canvas was very strong, and it was completely warm inside. We found our room, and Ralf turned the key in the lock, before stepping back and allowing me to enter ahead of him like a gentleman.

When I saw the room, I knew something was wrong. I had asked for twin beds. I knew I had asked, and Ralf had nodded that he heard me. And yet here, there was only one double bed. The cold air had sobered me slightly, but even though I shook my head, I could not clear the wine from my head. >>Ralf<< I said quietly, gesturing towards the bed. >>There is only one bed.<<

>>Oh!<< he said, putting his hand to his head as if he had only just noticed. >>What a bother! Well, this is obviously a mistake. I would ask them to change it, but... well, you saw there was no one on the reception desk at this late hour. We will have to make the best of it.<<

I stared at the bed, and tried not to stare at Ralf, feeling the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. I should have forced the issue, I should have made a fuss, and I should have gone back and found that nice waitress and asked if she could have found the concierge and asked him to change rooms. But instead, I scowled at Ralf, then went into the bathroom, as I needed to relieve myself of the vast quantity of wine had just drunk. Then I stood at the mirror for some time, looking through the little bottles of shampoo and soap until I found a toothbrush. Luckily, there were two, so I used one, and left the other for Ralf. I dug through my handbag, relieved that I had thought to carry it with me, and saw my contraceptive pills. Yes, well, better take one now, though it seemed I would not be seeing Florian until the next day. All for nothing, you silly little pills, I thought, and carelessly left the packet by the side of the sink.

When I came back to the main room, I found that Ralf had got into bed, and was lying quite awkwardly on the side nearest the door, with his arms folded above his head, trying to look nonchalant. He was still wearing his cotton jumper, though his leather trousers had been carefully folded over the back of a chair.

>>If you need to brush your teeth, I left you the spare toothbrush<< I told him, as I turned aside to unfasten the calf-high leather boots I had worn in anticipation of having to hike through a forest. Behind me, I heard Ralf slip out of bed and cross the floor, though I did my best to avoid looking at him, half undressed. For a moment, I wondered if I, too, should disrobe, thinking my clothes would be all crumpled the next morning if I slept in them. But I liked the idea of being naked in a bed with Ralf Hütter even less than I liked the idea of rumpled clothes, so I only slipped off my boots and my tights, took off my bra from under my shirt, and tucked myself up into bed. And again, I averted my eyes as Ralf stalked back across the floor and slipped into the opposite side of the bed. I did not really want to know that his thighs were even paler than his face, with its computer-lab tan; his legs the sort of white that only things that lived under rotting stumps ever achieved.

>>There<< he said, a little too loud. >>Isn't this cosy.<<

I said nothing, realising just how tired I was after the long day, especially now that the last fumes of the wine were trying to drag me down into unconsciousness.

>>Chan<< he said, just as I was starting to fall asleep. >>Are you not cold?<<

>>No<< I assured him. >>I am quite warm.<<

>>You are shivering<< he observed. >>I can feel it through the mattress.<<

I lay back and tried to still myself, but if I was shivering, it was not from cold, but from the sudden awareness that I was in a locked room, lying in bed with a half-naked man whose truthfulness I was suddenly starting to doubt, and not one of my friends knew where I was.

>>Come here, I will warm you<< he said softly. I shook my head decisively, and tried to inch away, but there was not much of the mattress left before the floor. <Well, if Mohammed won't come to the mountain...<< he said, and I felt the bed shift beneath me.

And suddenly, Ralf was on top of me, the weight of him taking me by surprise and knocking most of the breath out of me, so I was too shocked to speak at first. Though he was slightly shorter than me, he was bigger than he looked, the weight of his body holding me down as he twisted around, searching for my face. His mouth collided with my nose, my cheek, glanced off my lip before he brought his full weight down on me and tried to kiss me.

As his tongue entered my mouth, wet and slimey and tasting faintly of toothpaste, I started to struggle, trying to push him off me, but he was too heavy. His hair dropped into my face, lank and spidery, and it tickled terribly, but at least that gave me an idea. Grabbing a fistful of the long hair at the back of his neck, I forcibly pulled at least his head off mine, so I could breathe without that awful tongue in my throat.

>>Ralf<< I cried out. >>What do you think you're doing? Stop it! Get off me!<<

Suddenly, he became afraid, pushing his hand over my mouth. >>Shh, don't shout. People will hear.<<

I should have screamed my head off. I should have shouted and wailed and made such a noise that the night porter came running and pulled Herr Hütter off me. But then, I was so naive. I was afraid, as I realised the concierge, the waitress, the night porter - they all thought that Ralf and I were married, and if they discovered we were not, I was convinced that I would be thrown out of the hotel. So I stopped struggling, and he released my mouth.

>>Get off me. Please.<< I begged, keeping my voice very low. >>I can't breathe.<<

Reluctantly, Ralf rolled off me, but he did not retreat back to his side of the bed, and remained very close, wrapping his arms around me as if I were a teddy-bear. >>Chan, you don't understand. This is intolerable. I can't eat, I can't sleep for wanting you.<< This, despite the fact that I had just seen him put away a rather considerable quantity of potatoes au gratin in the restaurant below. >>I have fought against my feelings for months now, but I am in love with you.<<

>>Don't be ridiculous<< I said, trying carefully to keep my voice dispassionate, as I knew Ralf's moods could be unpredictable, and I did not want to provoke him to any more of this foolishness. >>You barely know me. And most of the time, I don't think you even like me.<<

>>If I am cold to you on the outside, it is because on the inside, I am on fire, I am burning up with the love of you.<< Suddenly, Myrthe's words seemed to echo in my head. All of his behaviour seemed to twist into a different light, as he said it. The odd silences. The staring. The way he constantly picked at me like a little boy on the playground. >>Chan, you have to understand. I am wild for you. Feel how my heart pounds, when you are near me.<< Reaching out, he seized my hand and pressed it against his breast, where, as he said, I could feel his organ beating urgently against the flat of my palm.

>>Ralf, your heart beats so fast because you drink so much coffee<< I told him dismissively, pulling my hand back.

>>I want to have a fuck with you, Chan. If you deny me, I shall go mad.<< He really said it like that, stilted and strange, like a piece of dialogue he had learned from a book or a film, or maybe I was misunderstanding the German word he had used.

>>No!<< I snapped.

>>Why?<< persisted Ralf, reaching out with his hand and running it up my body. He stopped when his fingers reached my breast and clenched, his finger going straight to my nipple, trying to pull it to attention.

>>No<< I repeated, seizing his hand and pushing it down, away from my breast, even as my traitorous nipple started to rise under his touch. But the ever-irritating Ralf seemed to get completely the wrong idea, as once I had let go of his hand, he persisted, carrying on lower until his hand had slipped down to my thigh, then up under my skirt. I froze as his slim fingers slipped between my thighs, encountering the soft cotton of my panties. My hand clasped around his wrist, trying to stay his hand, but it was no use. He was stronger than me. What on earth should I do?

Ralf had moved his face closer again, pressing his lips against my cheek, my jaw, then the soft part of my neck below my ear. >>I love you so much. I think you are the only woman who could ever really understand me<< he said softly, though the sensation of his breath against the inside of my ear sent a little shiver down my spine.

>>Stop saying things like that. You know they are not true.<<

>>But they are true. I know you will laugh at me, you will make fun of me, and call me a little boy with an infatuation. But it's true. I am in love with you.<< His fingers had reached the hem of my panties and pushed beneath, slowly working their way up and down until he managed to push just inside my outer lips.

I felt the panic rising inside me, even as I cursed my body for responding to him, becoming moist like a kind of reflex, rather than out of any genuine desire for him. Really, all I wanted was to just put my head on the pillow and go to sleep. It was absurd, this idea he had in his head, of his being in love with me. He generally had not a thing to say to me, when Florian was not there. And I felt myself die a little bit inside, cringing at the thought of Florian, even as Ralf pushed his slender middle finger up inside me. I gasped a little, then had a chilling thought. He was not going to leave me alone, all night, unless I gave in to him. If I wanted to sleep, I just had to get it over with, and let him do whatever it was he felt he had to do to me. And then I would get to sleep.

With a resigned sigh, I turned my face towards him, and put my lips against his. Again, he pushed his revolting tongue into my mouth, but this time I was prepared, and didn't mind it so much. Between my legs, I could feel his finger moving up and down, as if operating one of the dials on his synthesiser. Was that all I was, just a machine to him? Something to be programmed and calibrated, and move the knobs and dials up and down, until he got what he wanted?

Well. It didn't matter. As I had told Myrthe once, another lifetime ago, I was half machine. Pulling away from his mouth slightly, I made a calculated decision, and told him >>Alright.<<

Ralf's mouth pulled away in the dark. >>Alright?<<

>>I said alright<< I snapped, I trying to keep the irritation out of my voice, though really I just wanted to tell him to hurry up and get on with it.

He removed the irritating finger, but then I realised he was pulling at my clothes. He unbuttoned my miniskirt and pulled it off my hips, then slid off my panties. Then he rolled over on top of me again, though honestly, I wished he would stop trying to kiss me. The tongue was the worst part. I parted my knees to admit him, and felt him groping his way between my thighs. I could feel my heart beating inside my chest, and steeled myself for whatever it was that was going to happen next.

Ralf was kneeling, his hand between my legs, trying to feel his way. I felt his weight against me, the hair of his thighs against my smooth legs, and then something substantially larger than his finger being pushed inside me. I wanted to cry out, but knew I must not, so instead I latched my mouth onto the nearest part of him - his neck? his shoulder? - and sucked his flesh between my lips to muffle my cry.

>>Oh Christ, you are so tight<< he breathed softly into my hair, and I tried to relax. Despite the initial wince of fear, it did not actually hurt, so I tried to relax, though I was almost painfully aware of everywhere that Ralf was touching me, the cotton of his sweater against my chest, his leg-hair against my thighs, and that strange organ up inside me. I shifted my hips, trying to get comfortable, and he moaned, then started to move against me. Each thrust seemed to bore a hole right through me, and I struggled to understand how Silke and Freda spoke as if they enjoyed this kind of thing. Catching my breath, I lay back, and tried to wait for it to be over.

Ralf's breathing had grown laboured, and his heart really was beating wildly now, as he pushed into me again and again, though he sounded more like he was in pain, than enjoying the activity.

>>I'm sorry<< he said. >>I'm so close, I'm not going to last<< he said.

Oh, thank god. >>It's OK<< I told him stoically, wondering if he would have the consideration to tell me when he was finished.

But abruptly, it became very obvious, as he stopped thrusting, and his whole body just kind of tensed up and quivered. I felt something spurt inside me, and the sensation of wet. And then he stopped, slumping back against me, panting and trying to catch his breath.

>>I love you so much<< he breathed into my hair, and I frowned. This was not the way it was supposed to go, at least not according to the information I had gleaned from chats with Silke and the other girls. They had laughingly complained - or boasted, I wasn't always sure which - about the way that the moment they 'gave in' to men who had been pursuing them, the men seemed to lose interest as soon as the pursuit was over. And yet here was Ralf sliding off me, his now shrunken organ slipping out of me with a slick shudder, like passing a blood clot. He wasn't ignoring me, he was clinging to me like a child clinging to a doll, wrapping his arms around my waist and thrusting his face against my neck, where I heard his breaths grow slower and more steady, until at last I was convinced that he was asleep.

But sleep, unfortunately, seemed to have left me. I was no longer quite so drunk, and a slight headache was niggling me awake. Not to mention, I was most disturbed by Ralf's sudden spate of odd behaviour, and needed time to try to puzzle through what had just happened to him to make him act like this. What on earth had I said or done to him to make him think that I desired him? I had, if anything, been cool, even cruel to him, treating him as I would any other of Florian's friends. Was this just the way that Florian's friends were going to behave towards me now? Would Emil try next? And then that awful Wolfgang? I puzzled on this until I fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a weird and slightly cathartic passage to write. Normally, in fan fiction I try to write sex scenes _as they should be_ , modelling fantasies of what consent can and should look like. In this, I instead wrote a sex scene that was uncomfortably close to _how things were_.
> 
> I want to make it clear; in the culture of 2015, what Ralf does to Jan in this chapter is sexual assault, if not rape. (Although she does eventually give in out of desperation, he has ignored her stated requests for him to stop, several times.) In the culture of 1970 (hell, even in the culture of the 80s, when I was coerced into sex into situations that were even more dubious) it would not have been viewed that way. In the culture of 1970, it's an ambiguous situation. The words, let alone the concept "date rape" did not exist for describing this situation during this historical period, and as a writer, I'm choosing to portray this specific character in this specific situation as a socially awkward misfit who is bad with boundaries, bad with women and who views his actions as a seduction - and it is possible, through misinterpreting Jan's actions, to see his point of view. The Ralf of this story continues to be a morally ambiguous figure (rather than my writing him as The Big Bad Predator) and Jan's feelings towards him are ambiguous. It's weird, for me, to write a guy who commits a sexual assault as sympathetic in any way, but Ralf, as a character, is, and continues to be a complex and sometimes sympathetic character.
> 
> Yes, this is me dealing with stuff. This is me dealing with stuff in my life, but also ~how to write about rape~. It's intentionally awkward and uncomfortable, but there are also aspects of it that could potentially be read as funny. This is not me making light of rape, but highlighting the awkwardness and weirdness of the situation, as well as how Jan reacts to things.
> 
> Phew! That was maybe harder to write than the chapter. But I wanted to explain the complexity of why I wrote this scene the way I did, rather than feel like it was all "TheAstronomyMod is totally a rape apologist or even fetishist!!!!" which is the opposite of what I was exploring here.


	13. Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf struggles to turn his one-night-stand with Jan into a proper relationship, even without her accord on the matter. And as they discuss their sexual and romantic histories, there are some surprises for both of them. But when they reach the campsite near Forst, Jan starts to realise how she has been set up, and tries to enlist the help of her friends.
> 
> TW: contains non-con from the start, and a small part of the aftermath of a woman trying to cope with her own rape. Same cautions as the last chapter, that this may be triggering for some readers.

Luckily, though I eventually slept, I did not dream. But I awoke to the distinct sensation that someone had put a crowbar between the bones of my ribcage, and was trying to pry me apart. My breath caught in my throat and I startled awake, but I saw only the first rays of the sun coming in through a crack in the opulent drapes. But someone was playing with my chest, clutching their hand tightly against my breasts to raise my nipples. For a moment, I was confused, still slightly befuddled by the previous night's drink, then elated. Had I succeeded in my objective for the forest party, had I tempted Florian into bed? Well, someone had pushed their legs between my thighs from behind, and was sliding a cock back and forth between my moist outer lips. I shifted slightly, wanting to raise my head, though I could not understand why we were in an opulent hotel, and not a rough canvas tent.

But as I shifted, the man behind me spoke. >>Are you awake now?<<

For a horrible second, I did not quite remember, though I recognise his voice. Ralf? Ralf _Hütter_? Why was Ralf carefully shifting back and forth between my legs, angling with his organ, until a grunt and a push and a burst of sensation indicated that he was now inside me? And then abruptly it all came flooding back. Ralf and his preposterous proposition. Agreeing to have sex with Ralf, just to get him to leave me alone and go to bed. Ralf claiming that he was in _love_ with me.

Gritting my teeth, I stared up at the heavy brocade of the curtains, and did my best to just try to ignore it until it was over. But this morning, he did not seem satisfied with the brief, perfunctory performance of the night before. This morning, he kept insisting that I should be enjoying it, too, touching my breasts, angling his hips and asking if it was good for me, too. I wanted to hit him with something, hard, though I knew better than to tell him for fucks sake, just stop this ridiculous performance, finish what you need, and get off me. That, I knew, might hurt his feelings. Finally, after what seemed an age of him rummaging around down there, he seemed satisfied, and I felt his body tense behind me, preparing for climax. The whole thing seemed slightly grotesque to me, and all I wanted was to get in the shower next door, and wash him off me.

But Ralf, it seemed, wanted to kiss and cuddle and have pillow talk afterwards, pulling me around to face him as he kissed my face softly again and again. >>I love you so much<< he told me, though this morning, he seemed displeased with my puzzled face in response to this statement. >>You know, you could say something back to me<< he insisted, and even I could feel the displeasure in his frown.

>>What do you want me to say?<<

>>You could say you love me, too.<<

I frowned, and moved my gaze down from his polluted-sky eyes to his narrow little mouth. Although I was tempted to tell him _but I don't_ , I thought better of saying that aloud. After all, I was still very dependent on him, for a ride back to the service station, for the drive up to the forest - though once there, I could obviously find someone else to drive me home. Klaus or Emil or even Wolfgang seemed a better bet at this point. But then I realised with alarm that it had been some time since he spoke, and he was expecting an answer, if the look of annoyance was anything to go by.

Deciding not to risk my voice, I shrugged lightly and bent forward to kiss him. Thankfully, he seemed satisfied with that, and smiled. >>You're very quiet.<<

>>I'm very hungry<< I replied. >>I never talk much before I've had my morning coffee.<<

At that, he grinned widely. >>I can relate to that. I know they don't do room service, but shall I go downstairs and see what breakfast I can get from the buffet?<<

>>Yes please<< I said, wondering why on earth I hadn't tried this tactic earlier to get rid of him.

Kissing me one more time, he climbed out of bed, retrieved his trousers from the back of the chair and pulled them over his hips, then slipped his boots on and left the room. As soon as he was gone, I flopped back on the bed, breathed a huge sigh of relief, then stared up at the ceiling, wondering how on earth I had got myself into this. And better yet, how the hell did I get myself out? But knowing I did not have long, I got out of bed and walked through into the bathroom. I turned on the shower and stepped into it, then turned the water up as hot as I could bear. I hated his smell on my skin, and the smell of him between my legs was even worse. I found the shampoo and lathered my hair, then took the sweet-smelling lotion and rubbed the lather all over my body, from head to toe, trying to force it up between my legs. That stung, terribly but I grit my teeth and bore it the way I had born his impositions. Then I turned around and lathered my back as I soaked my front, wishing I could entirely wash away every trace of Ralf from my mind, as well as my body.

But finally, when my skin was turning the colour of a lobster from the heat, I stepped from the shower and turned it off. Stupidly, I had not brought my clothes with me, so I wrapped myself in a towel and steeled myself to walk back out into the bedroom.

Of course, Ralf was there, lying on the bed, surrounded by plates of croissants, some fruit, and two large, steaming cups of hot coffee. He smiled when he saw me, his face flushing with genuine pleasure. >>You look so beautiful.<< I frowned, and sat down on the bed, trying to feel for the right words, but he handed me a cup of coffee. >>I don't know how you take it, so I did it like mine - I brought sugar if you want.<<

>>Yes, please<< I said, trying to keep my voice dispassionate. He tore open the packet and dumped it into my cup. >>Ralf...<< I said.

>>Yes?<< Perhaps it was just his long, dishevelled hair, but it seemed to me his ears pricked up, just like a dog.

>>Ralf...<< I tried to think how to reason with him.

>>I love how you say my name. _Waff_. It's funny to think I used to hate your accent, but now it just seems so adorable to me << he confessed.

>>Ralf, look<< I finally snapped. >>Just because I did a sex with you does not make me your girlfriend!<<

Ralf looked utterly puzzled by this assertion. >>Yes it does.<<

I stared at him, unable to counter his complete non-logic. >>It does not. Seriously. If doing a sex with someone makes you their girlfriend, how many girlfriends would Emil have?<<

>>Emil has too many girlfriends, and this is the problem<< countered Ralf, though he did stop to consider the issue further. But then he smiled and looked up. >>But I love you. That makes you my girlfriend.<<

>>You keep saying that like it means something.<< I protested.

>>But it does mean something. Would you go to bed with a man if you didn't love him? Have you been to bed with men you didn't love?<< Something in my expression must have alarmed him, and I felt my face going as red as a sheet. >>You have?<<

>>I have not.<<

>>You say that, but your face... the guilt is all over it!<< he accused.

>>I have not been to bed with any other men!<< I suddenly blurted out, and the words fell between us like an unexpected shower of rain, utterly drenching the conversation.

Ralf's face abruptly went as white as a sheet. >>I was your first? You were a virgin?<<

>>I did not say that.<< I said quietly, slumping back to the bed, and lying down to stop my head from spinning.

>>But if you haven't slept with any men, then how...<< Suddenly realisation seemed to dawn in his eyes. >>Oh.<<

>>You didn't stop to think that I might have made love with someone who was not a man?<<

Ralf's face was horror-struck. >>You are _lesbisch_? <<

I didn't need to ask for a translation of the unfamiliar term, but I shook my head. >>I do not know what I am.<<

>>What do you mean? Who is this person you slept with, before me?<< he asked, trying to sound reasonable though his voice shook, a little.

>>A girl from school<< I confessed. >>We were teenagers, very randy, and stuck together in an all girls' school. We had no idea what we were doing was in any way wrong or even strange at all. We even lived together for a time, after I moved down to London.<< I tried to think of a way to explain, that when we had made love, I had pretended that I was Brian Jones while she was being Mick Jagger; or else I had pretended to be Paul McCartney while she donned a pair of round spectacles and pretended to be John Lennon. But there was no way I could explain something like that to Ralf. >>But Valerie, you see... Valerie decided she liked men more than she liked me.<<

An expression of pain crossed Ralf's face, and I knew that he felt the hurt, too. >>What about you<< he asked. >>Do you like men?<<

I thought about it pragmatically, and Florian's face floated up in my memory. <Well, it seems like I do.<< Ralf smiled, completely misreading my meaning, so I tried to explain further. >>I think, to me, it doesn't matter if it is a man or a woman, if I think that they are kind, if I think that they are clever, if I _like_ them... << I felt my words trail off, as it was something I couldn't hope to explain to myself, let alone someone else.

>>Do you want to know a secret?<< said Ralf, quietly. I nodded. >>I think I understand, what you feel. I think, maybe perhaps, I am like this, too.<<

I turned to him and gaped. >>Did you ever?<<

>>No. Not with a man, no. But in Germany, we have this thing, it is called the Romantic-Friendship. It is OK, when you are very young, if you fall in love, with a man, or a woman. It is considered a very pure, very noble kind of love. Not a prelude to the love, for marriage, but a different quality of love.<<

>>But not a sexual love?<<

>>Oh, it can be, for some.<< Ralf nodded sagely. >>But this attraction, I feel it. I understand, if I look at a beautiful man, like, say, I look at Emil, I understand that Emil is beautiful and desirable, though, obviously, Emil is for the ladies.<<

I laughed, I couldn't help it. But I quickly picked up a croissant and started to eat, to hide my mirth.

>>What, you think this is funny? You, who have gone to bed with a woman?<<

I had to switch languages to explain the nuance. "No, no. That is not what I'm laughing at. I'm not used to the German language. We would never call a man _beautiful_. In English, you can a man _handsome_. You call a woman _beautiful_. But to call a man _beautiful_ , well, it sounds funny. That is all."

Ralf picked up a banana and started to peel it, as he considered this. "I don't understand. Handsome - _ansehnlich_ \- to us this is about utility, about respectability. It is not about beauty. Can not men be beautiful? In the sense of desirable, attractive, and yes. Physically beautiful."

"Florian" I blurted out, without meaning to.

"Yes," Ralf agreed. "Flori is beautiful. But I do not think he is what the English could call _handsome_. Emil... now Emil, yes, he I think is exactly what the English have in mind when they say _handsome_. I suppose you would never call Emil _beautiful_ in English, no, he is too masculine. But Flori has a completely different quality. He is truly _schön_ , inside and out."

>>Is Florian your Romantic-Friendship, then?<< I had to use German; there was no English equivalent for the term he had used.

Ralf didn't even have to think about that. His whole face beamed, as he flushed slightly, his eyes lighting up, not with the concupiscent desire he had looked at me, but with pure love. >>Yes. Yes, I think he is.<<

I shifted uncomfortably on the bed. >>Won't he be wondering where we are?<<

Ralf smiled slyly, turning towards me with a sheepish expression. >>I don't think he will.<<

>>What?<<

>>Do you know, when he went on in the bus with Wolfgang, and did not come back to us in the tow-truck, I think he was trying to give us time alone.<<

I glared at Ralf. >>But Florian is so clever, surely he worked out that all three of us could not ride in the tow-truck and... He would not leave... me...<< All at once, I suddenly saw the jaws of the trap, and had the awful feeling that Florian, my beloved Florian, might have been in on a plot.

>>Flori knows how I feel about you. He has known since the first day I met you, when I went to rehearsal straight from class, and told him I had met the most beautiful and intelligent girl in all of Europe. He knows. So I am sure, if he left, he wanted to give you and I time together, to get to know one another better.<<

I stared at his face, trying to read it like a complicated German document. He would not look at me as he said it. His face was flushing slightly, and he was twisting his fingers together as he spoke. Was Ralf _lying_ to me? It was so hard for me to read people, to concentrate both on the words that someone was speaking, and also try to pay attention and notice those tiny clues and signals they made with their faces and bodies. Human beings and their complicated communications were like a puzzle I had to spend a great deal of effort to work out. So when words and face did not align, I panicked. I did not know which to believe.

>>But you are right. As much as I enjoy watching you lie around nude, we should get going, it is soon time for check-out.<< He found his boots again and pulled them on, as I went around the room, collecting my clothes before dressing. I went into the bathroom, stuffed all my things back into my handbag, and that was it. I walked out of that hotel room with all of the things I had walked in, except precisely one.

Downstairs, Ralf made a great show of pulling out his wallet with a flourish and producing a Master Charge with which to pay. In those days, the only people I had ever seen with them were wealthy Americans, so I had to admit, I felt a little intimidated, though the posh hotel handled it with the blasé routine and lack of fuss habitually accorded the very wealthy. The hotel arranged for a car to take us back to the village, and we walked into the service station to see the strange sight of Ralf's Beetle up on the hydraulic lift, while a mechanic wrestled with hammering the rim of the tyre back into shape. It was only half an hour's job, and then they were able to replace the whole tyre. That, however, they would not accept Master Charge for, and Ralf was forced to write out a cheque.

But we were soon on our way, and after another hour and a half's driving - during which, astonishingly enough, Ralf and I managed not to argue, so perhaps the sex had accomplished something. We left the autobahn and drove on along narrow country roads for some time. Eventually, we reached a river, and drove upstream in the bright sunshine. At a pretty little village with what looked like a medieval manor hall, though Ralf told me it was the commune we had come to visit, he finally stopped and asked for directions from a couple of hippies in brightly-coloured peasant garb leading a goat down the road. The hippies pointed up into the hills, so Ralf climbed back into the car and drove up a long, winding road leading into a thick, dark forest.

It was not at all what I had expected from English forests at all, no twisted oaks nor thick ground cover. And neither was it quite an Alpine forest of tall, dark pines and spruce. It was, in fact, quite warm at the low altitudes, and the forest was of beech. The trees were huge, and ancient, reaching up high into the sky before they branched, their smooth light-grey trunks giving off the distinct impression of a gothic cathedral. And in the autumn air, the leaves were all turning orange and golden-brown, though they had yet to fall, sending the most beautiful dappled yellow and gold light across the winding road. Perhaps the mood of the place moved me a little, for when Ralf reached out between gearshifts and gently squeezed my hand, I did not scowl at him, and let him hold it for a minute before I seized it back.

We parked in a wide glen that was already crowded with vehicles. Further down the row, I could see both Klaus's rusty van and the Bus of Sounds with its psychedelic paintjob. 

I shivered slightly as I stepped out of the Beetle. >>Are you cold?<< asked Ralf.

>>A little<< I said. >>I threw my winter coat in the back of Klaus's van.<< But as I wandered over to peer in its windows, I saw that the van was completely empty, except for a few sacks of rubbish, mostly from roadside cafes.

>>Here.<< Silently, Ralf walked up behind me and draped his leather jacket across my shoulders.

>>Won't you be cold?<< I asked, surprised at his kindness, though really, it was quite warm and I did not want to give it back.

Ralf shrugged lightly. >>Germans are impervious to the cold.<< Then he reached out and took me by the hand, pulling me off, up a trail into the woods. I did not want to hold his hand, did not want to give him any more ideas fuelling his fantasy that he was in love with me and that I might be his girlfriend, but I was grateful for the coat, and did not want to appear unfriendly. So we walked up into the campsite hand in hand.

I almost laughed when I saw the grove where our friends had pitched their tents. It seemed that Germans were orderly in all things, even in campsites. The tents were not pitched, as I had expected in little clusters here and there, but in two almost perfectly concentric circles around an open central area that bore the scars and ashes of a massive bonfire. Although it was just past noon, people were only beginning to emerge from tents, heating the water for their breakfast coffee over butane stoves, as no one had seen fit to kindle the bonfire again.

It was Klaus who saw us first, capering about between the trees with a slightly manic expression that indicated that he had probably not been to bed at all. >>And here are Hansel and Gretel, our babes all lost in the woods<< he cried.

>>What are you doing, you maniac?<< asked Ralf affectionately as the drummer bounded over, dancing about us in lazy rings, holding a wicker basket just out of our reach.

>>Harvesting<< Klaus replied, and tipped his basket so we could see. Inside was a selection of large, plump mushrooms, and even a fat puffball.

>>Is that for lunch?<< I teased.

>>These are for lunch<< he informed us, then turned out his pockets, revealing a small stock of red toadstools with distinctive white spots. >>And these are for fun.<<

>>Amanita?<< I gasped. Klaus nodded. >>Aren't they terribly poisonous?<<

Klaus shook his head. >>Not if you boil them first. Boil them up, make a nice tea out of them, and I think they will be very kind to you.<< He tapped his forehead, then made a sort of whirling motion with his fingers to indicate being away with the fairies.

>>Magic mushrooms<< said Ralf warily.

>>Magic mushrooms for a magic theatre. Do you want some? Oh no, Ralf Hütter is far too sensible for such a thing. The price of admission is your mind, and our young Hütter is far too proud of his mind to mess with it<< Klaus teased.

>>I'll have one<< I said boldly, remembering what wonders had come of Klaus's last gift.

Klaus smiled and bowed, then handed me a nice, large, plump toadstool. As I grinned my thanks, Ralf stepped forward, not to be outdone. >>Alright, I'll have one too.<<

>>As you wish<< said Klaus, and handed another over. But then he seemed to think about something, and handed him a third. >>For our friend Flori. Three is a magical number. I think interesting things may happen if the three of you take a trip together. Though you may not be the same afterwards, Hütter.<<

>>And where is Flori?<< I asked, before Ralf could be rude to his drummer.

>>In his little house in the big woods<< said Klaus, gesturing off into the trees. Of course Florian had not pitched our tent in the midst of the two orderly circles of tents. He had pitched it a small distance away, on a slightly raised bank by a small brook, where the burbling sound of water would have drowned out some of the sounds of revelling.

But as we walked towards it, I caught sight of another, smaller tent pitched maybe a dozen metres beyond it. And in front of this tent crouched Myrthe heating her morning coffee, wearing an oversized stripey jumper I knew to be Michael's. Ah, so this was the lovers' lane where courting couples went to get some privacy.

\--Morning-- I called jauntily. --Or should I say afternoon?--

\--It's been a long night-- Myrthe laughed.

\--So you were successful in your quest?-- I teased, gesturing towards the tent.

Myrthe blushed strawberry red. --Yes, I should think so-- she said quietly, and then started to giggle. --I am only sorry you were not so successful. I could not help but notice Florian set up the tent on his own, and slept alone.--

\--I...-- I glanced sideways at Ralf, who had moved closer to me, wondering how much Dutch he could understand, though Florian claimed it was gobbledegook to him. But perhaps on hearing Florian's name, Ralf moved forward and put his arm possessively around my waist and moved in to kiss my cheek tenderly, nuzzling his face against my hair. --Myrthe, things have happened?--

Myrthe frowned as she looked at me, at the jacket, and at Ralf kissing my neck. --Ralf?-- she asked, and at that, Ralf looked up. --How did that happen? I thought you fancied...--

I was about to hiss at her to be quiet, but at that moment, the flaps of the larger tent opened and Florian emerged, beaming his familiar grin. >>I thought I heard voices<< he announced, stretching, so that his candy-coloured pinstripe pyjamas rode up, revealing a pale band of skin between shirt and pants. Only Florian would go camping in the deep woods of Southern Germany, wearing a perfect pair of pink-striped flannel pyjamas from the finest department store in all of Düsseldorf. >>Hallo, Ralf, did you get the car fixed?<<

>>I did, it's fine now, thank you<< said Ralf politely, but as Florian walked out into the clearing and saw us, I felt my heart drop through my chest. Although Ralf had stopped trying to kiss me, he still had his arm around my waist with such a clear air of possession that I felt ashamed in front of Florian.

_Ignore him_ , I wanted to protest, casting a panicked glance towards Flori, hoping he would see my distress and come over to separate us, as he once had when Ralf and I were fighting. _It didn't happen, I am not with this man, He is not my boyfriend, he is a madman in the grips of a delusion_.

Florian's face registered surprise for a moment, and for a tiny fraction of a second, I thought he looked as though he were about to cry. But then he brightened, and his eyes crinkled up in that familiar Florian grin, as he smiled widely, showing all of his teeth as if truly delighted. >>So you did it, old man.<<

Ralf stood up a little straighter, planted his feet a little wider, as he looked at his friend with jaunty confidence. >>I did it.<< But after a moment, he corrected himself. >> _We_ did it. We _did_ it. We did _it_. <<

Myrthe raised both of her eyebrows at me, nearly as surprised as I had been. I wanted to shake my head, tell her it was all a terrible mistake, but I settled for just mouthing --Nee-- at her.

>>Well, I'm glad it worked, I'm glad I could help<< Florian shrugged, then padded over to Myrthe's tent. >>Is that coffee?<<

>>It is. Would you like some? I'd invite you in, but...<< She cast a glance backwards over her shoulder into the depths of the tent, then shook her head. >>Him indoors is still asleep.<<

>>I'm not asleep<< protested Michael, and suddenly his head and torso emerged from the tent, completely nude. >>Oh. Hallo. Oops, I...<< The head and torso was retracted, then he emerged a few minutes later, wearing a kaftan that flopped down to his knees. >>Ralf and Jan?<< he said, and it sounded as much like an accusation as it was a greeting.

Oh no, I wanted to protest, it's not what you think. But it was getting to the point where too many people were starting to draw conclusions from Ralf's arm around my waist and his jacket around my shoulders for me to be able to deny the whole thing without causing some serious ripples. Instead, I threw a pleading glance at Myrthe. >>Myrthe, do you have a moment?<<

Myrthe, mercifully, picked up my meaning and climbed to her feet. >>Yes, let's go in your tent, give the boys some privacy<< she said, handing her cup of coffee to me.

>>We have no need of privacy<< said Ralf, confused.

>>I think you mistake her meaning - it is _they_ that need the privacy << Michael explained.

Ralf looked slightly alarmed, but as he looked back and forth between us, Florian quipped >>Why? What are they going to do? Compare the sizes of your penises?<<

He clearly found this most amusing, as he started to giggle at his own joke, but I flushed bright red, even as Myrthe rolled her eyes at him. >>No, we need Silke to do that properly.<<

Florian paused, as if considering this for a moment, then shrugged. >>OK. I will fetch her for you. I think I saw her in Emil's tent last night.<< With this, he shuffled off, still in his pyjamas, towards the bonfire and the concentric circles of tents.


	14. Tongebirge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jan tries to enlist her friends' help in shaking off the persistent young Hütter's attentions, she discovers the full extent of his subterfuge. But on a mountain hike, she starts to discover the layers of complexity to Ralf and Florian's relationship.
> 
> Meanwhile, Michael is starting to become very chummy with Power Station's drummer, while his own drummer makes a play for Emil's current girlfriend.

As Michael and Ralf stared awkwardly at one another across the butane camp stove, Myrthe and I ducked inside the other, larger tent. I almost gasped as I entered. So this was what Ralf and Florian had loaded all of the rucksacks into the van for. This was not a tent for roughing it; it was kitted out with all the creature comforts that I had seen laid on for luxury safaris for wealthy South Africans in the Kruger National Game Park. At one end, chairs were set out, dishes and plates were stacked in a rack, and a makeshift table made from a crate was set out with a chess set. Oil lamps hung from the rods in the ceiling, though neither of them were now lit. 

And in the rear compartment, Florian had somehow taken all three of our sleeping bags and all of the pillows and mattress pads, and made himself a little nest. So really, it seemed out of our little misadventure with the car accident, it was Florian that had made out like a bandit. There was even a bottle of his father's scotch in a corner, next to an old-fashioned wind-up gramophone. I walked over to look at the record - Schubert, of course. The whole tent seemed to smell slightly of Florian, though perhaps it was only his aftershave, as I could see his shaving brush and cup set out on a small hanging shelf in the bedding area.

\--What madness is this?-- Myrthe demanded. --You came here with the idea of seducing Florian - so how on earth did you end up fucking Ralf?--

I frowned down at the floor, which was not earth, as I was expecting, but some kind of rush matting. --I... I don't entirely know, to be honest? I was a little too drunk, after dinner, and I was so very tired, and Ralf just wouldn't leave me alone. And after a while... I just got tired of fighting him. I thought if I gave him a fuck, he would get bored and leave me alone. But it had the opposite effect.--

Myrthe pursed her lips, folding her hands around her coffee mug. --Jan, you have to _tell_ him that it's not going to lead to anything. He thinks you're in a relationship!--

\--Do you think I didn't try telling him? Ralf is very stubborn, he refuses to hear anything he doesn't want to know!-- I protested.

Abruptly, the canvas flaps of the tent flew open, flooding the space with brighter light, and for a moment, I cringed, terrified that it was Ralf coming to argue with me, telling me how, now that I had done a sex with him, I was his for life. But it was only Silke, her long hair in disarray as she crawled quickly in, and pulled the flaps closed behind her. >>No more with the hissing in Dutch. What is this I hear? You fucked _Ralf_?! But you _hate_ Ralf! <<

>>I don't hate him<< I protested. >>I just don't...<< I had wanted to say, _I just don't love him_ , but that didn't even begin to cover it. >> _Like_ him. <<

>>Or was that it? Was it a hate-fuck? I have known some very powerful hate-fucks. Listen, Riechmann last year, that was a hate-fuck. Best sex I have ever had, even though he was such a brute. Or maybe the sex was good, because he was such a brute. I don't know. But Ralf... Ralf is so... so... _wet_. Does he even know where to put it? <<

Myrthe, too, cocked her head and looked over at me, as if this were actually an issue of concern.

>>But what do I _do_? << I protested, sidestepping the issue of Ralf's prowess or lack thereof. >>He keeps trying to tell me that he's in love with me.<<

>>In love with you?<< echoed Myrthe. >>Oh god, this is bad. Once a boy is in love, he's like a limpet. Look, Myrthe, I _knew_. I told you - I tried to warn you - that Ralf is becoming infatuated with you. Joined at the hip, those two, I warned you. You want Florian, you get Ralf in on the same deal. <<

>>Well, that's it, then<< said Silke, quite sensibly. >>Speak to Florian. He is the only person that can get through to Ralf.<<

My face burned with shame. >>I don't want to talk to Florian about it.<<

>>Why not?<<

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. How on earth could I hope to explain? It wasn't that I didn't want Florian to know I'd fucked Ralf. Obviously, by now everyone in the campsite knew that I had fucked Ralf. But I didn't want Florian to know... to know what? I remembered crouching down in the scalding hot shower, trying to force soap between my legs, despite the stinging. And I felt my face burning with shame again. I didn't want Florian to know that I was weak. I didn't want Florian to know that I hadn't wanted to, that I had said no, and pushed Ralf away, and then I had gone ahead and done it anyway. I didn't want Florian to know that I had been dirtied. I didn't want Florian to know that I was a _slut_.

There was the sound of footsteps outside, and then Florian's very distinctive soft voice saying >>Knock knock?<< I jumped back, wondering if he'd heard us talking about him. >>You're so quiet, are you still in there?<<

>>Come in<< directed Silke, and held the flap open for him. She turned and gave me a very meaningful stare, then slipped out through the open gap. Myrthe leaned forward, kissed me quickly on the cheek, then muttered something about having to get back to Michael, and suddenly Florian and I were alone.

>>Was it something I said?<< quipped Florian. >>I only came in to get my boots, as Klaus said we should all go for a hike. Though, really... I suppose I should change.<< He shuffled towards the back of tent, dug in his bags to find clothes, then pulled down a canvas flap I had not seen before, giving him the privacy to change. 

>>No, they just... well. I think they wanted me to... well, to talk to you privately<< I hedged.

>>About what?<<

I took a deep breath. >>About Ralf>. I confessed. >>You are after all, his best friend.<<

>>Ah.<< His face appeared in the slight gap between the flap and the tent wall, and his mouth folded back into the familiar grin. It was hard to ignore the fact that his shoulders did appear to be bare. As odd as it seemed, I had still not seen Ralf without his shirt. But Florian nodded as his head bobbed in the gap. >>Zhan, I am in truth, delighted. I know how strongly he feels about you. I told you so, back at the beergarden. Trust me, I am not the type to be jealous. I get on with you. I do not believe that you will come between us, or intrude on our friendship.<< He paused, as he pulled a peasant shirt over his head, then slipped the straps of his overalls up across his shoulders. >>Nor do I think he will come between ours.<<

>>Flori, I...<< I stuttered, trying desperately to think how to turn this around, how to confess that I didn't single him out to seek his blessing, but his help in ending the match. >>Flori, I don't know how to say this, but...<<

He swept the canvas flap aside, fastened it to the roof with small string ties, then emerged fully dressed into the main room of the tent, casting about for his boots. >>Oh, there is no need to thank me. I know. It's OK.<<

>>Thank you<< I said, but in my halting voice, it came out a statement rather than the question I had intended.

>>Oh, it was nothing. I knew that Ralf wanted time alone with you. He asked me to go off, and scram with Michael and Wolfgang, to give you two time alone together. It was no big deal<< he shrugged. >>We stopped at the service station, I told the mechanic to go home and come back early the next morning, as Ralf had asked, and sent the driver off to pick you two up.<<

I stared at Florian, hardly believing what I was hearing. >>You set me up?<< I said, my voice dead of all emotion.

>>I cannot take credit for the plan<< said Florian. >>The genius in the detail was all Ralf. I knew he was too shy to ask you directly. It seemed a good plan.<<

>>What made you think I would go along with it<< I practically hissed.

Florian grinned again, as he laced up his hiking boots, tucking his overalls into his socks. >>You and Ralf, since the day you have met. You tease him, you torment him, you insult him, you pull his pigtails, you tell him he is stupid and ugly, and tease him that he behaves like a Neanderthal. I have seen this behaviour before. It is exactly the way my sister behaved, for six months, to the man she is now engaged to marry.<<

I felt as though I had been punched in the gut. >>You thought I _fancied_ him? <<

>>I did not think; I knew<< laughed Florian, taking a plum-coloured silk scarf from his pack and tying it jauntily around his neck. >>Now come on. Do you want to go on Klaus's nature walk, yes, no? I will wait outside if you want to change your clothes.<<

I didn't want to change my clothes and go on the nature walk. I wanted to crawl off into the nest of sleeping bags and cry my eyes out. Florian thought I fancied Ralf because I insulted him? What unfairness was this? How on earth could he not have seen that I insulted Ralf because I _hated_ him. Life was not always like a romantic English novel. Sometimes people really did act with their true emotions, being unkind only to those they disliked and... and... if that was the case, what on earth had Florian made of the way I was constantly, unceasingly kind to him?

But I did not cry. I dug in my rucksack until I found a pair of jeans and a lumpy old sweater of my father's that came down almost to my knees. Let Ralf try to hug me in that; I wouldn't feel it. But then I realised I still had his leather jacket. Not knowing what else to do, I put it back on.

Someone coughed at the entrance to the tent. >>Are you decent?<< Ralf, his voice all sing-song.

>>Yes.<< I said quietly.

>>That's a shame.<< Ralf's head appeared, grinning in the gap between the tent flaps, then his body followed. He dug about in his backpack for a few moments, then pulled out a leather case, and extracted a cordless electric shaver. His beard was not even heavy, just a few blondish whiskers dotted around his chin and upper lip, but he was meticulous about shaving it, running the electric razor over his skin again and again. >>Shall we go, or are you going to stay in the tent all day, fiddling with your clothes?<< he teased, and extended his hand towards me.

I didn't want to take his hand, so I stood up, and slipped out to find a whole group of our friends had assembled in anticipation of Klaus's hike.

And so we set off, Klaus leading us in a merry caper, as the rest of us followed, in twos or threes, filing off into the forest. Up ahead, I could see Myrthe and Michael, holding hands as they walked. And behind them were Emil and Silke, but little Wolfgang had come up from behind to talk to Michael, and finding himself rebuffed in favour of Myrthe, he had started to chat to Silke. She, at least, was small enough not to be too bothered by his lack of height, though Emil seemed most put out at having to share his audience. And then, about a dozen paces behind, came Ralf and I, with him trying to hold onto my hand, and me trying to drop it. Florian floated along on the other side, his head almost bent to the ground as he scoured the leaf litter on the forest floor for mushrooms.

One of the girls up ahead started to sing, some old German folksong I didn't know the words to - something nonsensical about gathering nuts in the forest - but the chorus travelled down the line. Ralf threw his head back and joined in; he had a good, clear tenor, unlike his slightly hesitant and boyish speaking voice. Florian was shyer about singing, but he added his soft voice in a harmony underneath. Florian's voice was deeper than Ralf's, with a slightly throaty burr to it, but their two voices harmonised together beautifully when they sang.

My mood lifted as we walked. I dropped Ralf's hand as we jumped across a small stream, and luckily he didn't try to pick it up again, as the three of us had fallen to talking again. I told them about English woods, about the difference between Royal Forests and common woods, then Ralf started to talk about the German attitude to private property and the right to roam, and how political attitudes towards it had changed over the 20th Century, with Florian interjecting occasionally to tell us both the names of interesting species of trees. He would name it in German - _die Birke_ \- then I would name it in English - _birch_ and we would both laugh. And then the next species would come into view, and it would start again, with Florian declaring  >> _die Eiche_ << and me contrasting " _oak_ , sessile, I think?" >> _der Weissdorn_ << announced Florian. I peered at the foliage, before spotting the giveaway spikes. "Hawthorn."

As we passed the edge of the plain and started to climb the hill in earnest, I had almost forgotten what had happened the previous night, and just felt like we were three old friends larking about in the woods. Florian and I were in slightly better shape than Ralf, who lagged behind, huffing and puffing a little as we bounded up the rough steps cut into the increasingly steep slope. We passed Silke and Wolfgang, who had sat down to rest, even as Emil stood a few metres away, hovering about them as if he wasn't sure what to do about this interloper. Florian just shook his head at Emil, and patted him gently on the shoulder, but we kept climbing. Up ahead, Klaus never seemed to flag, pushing ever onwards with his indefatigable stamina. Michael was almost on his heels, though Myrthe was dropping back slightly, panting as she wiped her forehead with her neckerchief.

\--I'm not used to this. We have no mountains in Holland-- she laughed.

\--You should come to South Africa. We have the Drakensberg!-- I told her, and put my arm around her shoulders, just to steady her. But Ralf started to glare. For a moment, I felt guilty, but then I felt defiant, and threaded my arm through hers as we climbed the last few hundred metres, up through the treeline to a wooden observation post, perched on the side of the bare rocky face of the outcrop. Out of the shelter of the trees, it was very cold, and windy, and I was glad of the protection Ralf's jacket offered me. And when I turned around to admire the view, looking out across a sea of golden and orange treetops, it took my breath away.

>>Who wants to summit?<< asked Klaus, ignoring the view to walk back to test his weight against some rusted iron rings leading straight up the rock face to the gnarled granite peak above.

>>I'll come<< said Michael, practically bouncing with excitement, before he turned to look at Myrthe.

>>No way<< she said, turning back to the view.

>>Flori?<< asked Michael. >>You always were good at climbing, at school.<<

>>I don't think so<< demurred Florian, but Ralf's competitive edge had been piqued. And so the three boys headed up the rings as the rest of us clustered round the observation post, staring out over the ocean of trees as the stragglers made their way up the rock stairs. Wolfgang said he was going to summit - mostly I think he was trying to impress Silke - which meant that Emil had to go, too, just to prove his prowess. Florian watched them go, then just laughed. >>And there they go, up the mountain, with all that testosterone, like a pack of lions, leaving me down here with all the pretty girls. A lucky man am I!<<

I turned towards him, studying him carefully. With his jaw-length hair ruffled by the breeze, and the jaunty plum-coloured scarf tied around his neck, he looked so feminine that I had to wonder. Although he said that he preferred the company of women, and he seemed to have an ease with us - perhaps from long years of living with two sisters - again, I wondered if he _preferred_ boys.  >>You really do not want to climb to the summit, after walking up all this way?<< I asked.

Florian shook his head. He wasn't really looking at me, he was looking past me to the phenomenal view. >>I am happy to watch Ralf climb for both of us.<< A subtle smile that might have been mocking. >>And you know he will tell us all about it when he gets back.<<

A shiver went through me, or perhaps it was just a passing breeze. "You are content to live in Ralf's shadow; you do not want things for yourself?" I asked, low, in English, trying to keep my voice down so Silke could not hear.

That had maybe come out been a bit sharp, and Florian turned to me, knitting his brows together disapprovingly. "You may have noticed, Ralf is a little competitive. He always wants to be the first, the fastest, the most superior. It's not something he can change, it is just his personality. But it makes him difficult to work with... to live with. I have found it expedient, when dealing with Ralf, to let him have his victories, on the small things that do not really matter. When Ralf feels he gets his way in most things, I find he is prepared to be less uncompromising in the things that truly are important to me - our musics, our compositions. When Ralf feels he has won at mountain-climbing, or car chases, he lets me win at taking the solo in the _mittelacht_."

_But what about girls?_ I wanted to ask. Was I just another compromise he had made with Ralf, to ensure that the running of Power Station went smoothly?

When, at last, Ralf and Michael came back down the iron rings, jostling and arguing over whether the tiny bit of rock that Ralf had stood on or Klaus had stood on was higher, we were all rubbing our hands together and blowing on them to keep them warm. I had zipped up the leather jacket against the wind, and I could see Ralf looking at it longingly.

>>Are you very warm?<< he asked, pretending to be solicitous as he tugged at the zipper to pull it all the way up to my chin.

>>Oh yes. Are you very cold?<< I teased back.

Ralf set his jaw, and struck a heroic pose against the side of the mountain, though I could see that he was shivering slightly. >>Not at all.<<

I thrust my hands into my pockets, to lord it over Ralf how warm I was, and my hand touched something soft and slightly damp. I pulled it out, to reveal the amanita mushroom, wilted slightly, but still whole. >>I had forgotten about these.<<

Florian came over to stare. >>Is that what I think...?<<

Ralf checked his own pockets. >>There's one for you, as well. If you want to take it. We'll have to boil them to kill the poison, though... if you dare.<<

The pair of them stared at one another, as Florian seemed to be making up his mind. I knew that Florian was not susceptible to this foolish masculine competitiveness in quite the same way that Ralf was, but the two of them always seemed to be able to spur one another on in a way that they resisted any other peer pressure. But finally, Florian turned to me. >>What do you think, Zhan?<<

I remembered the night of the Power Station gig, and the flaming neon blue numbers spilling from his hands. >>I'll take one if you take one.<<

Back at the campsite, the light was already growing dim as the shadows lengthened, and Klaus and Michael were chopping logs for the evening's bonfire, which they said they planned to make even more spectacular than the previous night's. The two of them seemed to have bonded, up on the mountain summit, and were laughing and joking together, splitting logs as a tight team. Ralf, Flori and Emil were gathering smaller logs and kindling, but Wolfgang was just sitting by the large, plastic barrel of drinking water, telling jokes to make all the girls laugh. I did not entirely understand the appeal, as now I had had a closer look at him, I thought he looked a bit like a weasel with that sharp nose and those glittering dark eyes, but the girls of the campsite seemed to flock about him as moths round a campfire.

>>Don't you burn effigies?<< I asked Emil, as I did my bit, sweeping up sawdust and woodchips and piling them in the fire-pit to act as kindling. >>That's what they do for Bonfire Night in Lewes. They burn giant papier-mache puppets of the Pope, and giant puppets of unpopular politicians. I'm sure, with your artistic talents you could build a beautiful puppet to burn.<<

Emil looked over at the young man chatting up Silke and smiled darkly. >>Maybe we will burn Wolfgang, ja?<<

We all ate a communal supper of lentil and mushroom stew that the campers who had not climbed the mountain had prepared in our absence. Then Ralf, Florian and I went back to our own tent to see about preparing our own mushrooms. Since mine was so much bigger and fatter than theirs, we decided to chop them all up, boil them together, and divide the resulting broth equally. I chopped them carefully, taking care not to lick my fingers or rub my eyes, then tipped them into a tin cup with half a litre of water, and set it to simmer over our butane stove.

>>How long do we cook it for?<< I asked.

>>Klaus said to let it simmer, like tea<< supplied Ralf.

>>I would not want to drink German tea<< I laughed, even as he came up behind me and put his arm around my shoulders. My temptation was to shrug him off again, but then I realised he was trying to take his jacket back from me. I surrendered it, and dug in my bag for my large, black, boiled wool overcoat. It was the least sexiest article of clothing I had ever seen in my life, so just let Ralf try to fancy me in that. With the great coat over my lumpy jumper hiding my few curves, I really did look like a boy for once.

But Ralf was undaunted, walking up to me, gently taking the collar of my coat in his hands to pull me towards him, and leaving a kiss on my surprised lips. There was the sound of soft shuffling, and I saw out of the corner of my eye that Florian had averted his eyes to give us some privacy, and I saw an out.

>>Stop it<< I told him. >>Flori does not want to watch us.<<

>>No, it's fine<< Florian insisted. >>I don't mind at all. And I can always roll down the canvas divider for privacy.<< His eyes flashed in the firelight, and I thought again of that odd comment about being content to watch Ralf summit.

>>It is starting to smell<< I said, changing the subject awkwardly as I stirred our mushroom tea. >>Shall we drink it, and get it over with?<<

>>We should have some Shamanistic ritual to honour our ancestors<< Florian suggested, bringing three tin cups out from the tent.

>>What do you suggest?<< laughed Ralf. >>Pagan rites to increase fertility?<<

>>Thank you, I am already taking a pill to ensure less fertility<< I said, pouring the brown, sludgy liquid from the pan to the cups, trying not to smell any. Were we really going to drink this vile-smelling stuff?

Florian took the cups and stared at them thoughtfully, and as the firelight flickered across his face, he looked much older than his years, noble and strange, a bit like a witch-doctor. >>We dedicate this offering to the Great God Pan<< he said portentously. >>The _Piper at the Gates of Dawn_ , the god of music, and trickery, and Nature. Bestow your blessings upon us, O Pan, let our music reach new heights, and take us to far places.<<

>>I'll drink to that<< said Ralf, and took a cup. He drained the contents in one gulp. Florian took the next, and gagged slightly at the strong smell, but he got it down. I took the last cup, pinched my nose against the smell, but made the mistake of taking a small, tentative sip before drinking it, and retched slightly. >>No, no, you just have to get it down in one go<< insisted Ralf, holding the cup against my face so I could not refuse to drink.

I gagged, choked, and for a moment I couldn't breathe, the thick, dark liquid starting to go up my nose, as I panicked, trying to push Ralf away, but finally it was over. I wanted to be sick, feeling wretched and miserable, but suddenly Florian was beside me again, with a bottle.

>>Here. Wash it down with some Scotch. It will take the taste away.<< Gratefully, I accepted half a finger of liquor in my tin cup, sipping at the burning amber liquid, and feeling like I was being cleansed. My stomach stopped boiling, and I started to feel a little better. >>Shall we go to the bonfire?<<


	15. Fibonacci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan, Florian and Ralf all take mushrooms together. And as Ralf gets distracted by the wild music around the campfire, Florian and Jan crawl off into the woods to discuss "machines, maths and pineapples." But as Jan finds herself falling deeper and deeper in love with Florian's "mind in a meat-locker", she has to turn to Ralf to relieve her sexual frustration.

As we headed down to the bonfire, Florian took a small flute, and Michael brought an acoustic guitar. Someone else had bongos, and Klaus soon commandeered the large cooking pans that had been drying by the water-tank. As Emil lit the bonfire, thrusting a burning poker into deep crevices between the logs, we started to clap in rhythm, and soon we were all chanting >>Burn, Burn, Burn!<< Florian looked at Michael, and raised the flute to his lips, catching the rhythm of the chant, and spinning it out into a strange, droning, Indian-sounding melody. For a minute, Michael just cocked his ear and listened, then started to tune his guitar to the flute. As the flames caught, he started playing a rhythm against Florian's flute, dancing through and across the beat of the clapping and Klaus's tribal drumming. A couple of girls got up to dance, and I wanted to, as well, but Ralf had his arm around my shoulders, and was holding me against him tightly. A shower of sparks went up from the fire, as the largest of the logs, still slightly green, collapsed into the inferno and started to burn, and a cheer passed round the circle.

I could not stop staring at the sparks, watching them launch themselves in great arcs from the fire, some of them burning brightly before falling back to earth, tamped out by careful feet, while others of them caught the breeze and sailed up into the cosmos, where their light was lost among the stars. The fire was bright, but out so deep in the woods, the night sky was inky black the way it had been in the Veldt, though the constellations were all so unfamiliar. I almost never saw stars in London or Düsseldorf, so I struggled to recognise anything I knew - not even so much as the Southern Cross.

Nearby, I saw Myrthe laughing, picking a pinecone off the forest floor and tossing it onto the fire, where it crackled and popped, sending off a shower of sparks, and a fresh, clean scent. Pinecones! Looking down, I realised that the floor was littered with them. A few young conifers had taken advantage of the clearing by the stream, and bored a dark hole against the cathedral-like beeches. Gathering the pinecones within reach, I hoarded them in the apron formed by my long jumper, turning them over in my hands, carefully examining the grooves and lattices of their scales as if they were written in a secret language. They were just like the Jacquard cards, neat and orderly, and completely obtuse.

Suddenly, I was seized with the desire for more pinecones, shrugging off Ralf's arm and following the glittering finds like a trail of breadcrumbs. Ralf had already become fascinated by Klaus's makeshift kettle-drum, knocking against it carefully with a pair of fire tongs, here and there, realising that it had different tonalities in the centre then at the edges, so that he could almost coax a tune from it. And when Ralf became intoxicated with music, he forgot everything else, including me. Klaus and Michael seemed to have become bound together in music, their heads so close they were almost touching, long dark hair and long blond hair swinging in unison with their pulsing beat, staring at one another with eyes locked fast, in a way I have since learned to recognise as two musicians falling in love with one another's rhythms.

The pinecones, though, were the most fascinating things I had ever seen, as I left the bonfire and my group of friends, and worked my way back towards the stand of unfamiliar trees - pine or spruce or even fir? - I had no idea about German trees, and if I asked Florian, he would only know the German word. I liked the pine trees, though, lying down beneath them in a dark cave lined with soft pine needles.

The music was growing wilder, as Florian seemed to be having trouble finding the tune, blowing long droning notes from his flute which seemed to drift off into wind and ether and puffs of grey-green smoke. The drumming was becoming louder, and more insistent, as Wolfgang had joined in, and was now banging rocks together in a sharp, clinking, almost metallic pulse. _Boing!_ would go Ralf's fire tongs, then _Boom!_ would go Klaus' cooking pot and finally _Tschak!_ would go Wolfgang with his stupid rocks. It was a gloriously rhythmical racket, almost drowning out the steady strumming of Michael's guitar.

But safe in my dark tree-cave, away from the noise, I tipped all of my pinecones out of my jumper onto the ground and decided to make a sort of shrine to the trees, sorting them out into order of size and the complexity of their whorls. Some of them were open, but some of them remained tightly closed, their secrets tightly furled. I started with one row, then soon found I had 3 or 4 rows, as more and more and differences and similarities emerged, my neat grid growing branches and sub-families of pinecone taxonomies.

>>Fibonacci<< said someone, softly but very close, and I looked up, startled, to see Florian standing above me. I had not even noticed the flute had stopped playing, it seemed only moments had gone by, while I was absorbed in pinecone world.

>>What?<< I said, disoriented for a moment, thinking of spirals as I watched Florian's aura glowing neon and blue against the dark.

>>Fibonacci<< he repeated, sitting down beside me and picking up a pinecone. >>The whorls of a pinecone, if you count them, are always a Fibonacci number.<< I bent down to try to prove or disprove his words, but the pinecone seemed to be growing and shrinking as I tried to count. I kept losing track, and anyway, the sounds of the numbers seemed to resonate in my mouth and become very funny. _Three_! Whoever had decided that the word for a triad should sound like a lisping tree?  >>Pineapples, too. They also grow in Fibonacci numbers.<< A wistful expression came across his face. >>I love pineapples.<<

I started to giggle, not because he had said anything funny, but because the German word for pineapple - _ananas_ \- sounded so ridiculous. "Ananananananananas" I repeated, and nearly collapsed laughing.

>>What is so very amusing about pineapples<< said Florian, not angry, but just kind of quizzical.

I tried to regain control over myself. <Do you know<< I managed to say >>In South Africa, pineapples grow like weeds. They sell them by the roadsides; you can buy a dozen for a rand.<< I paused to consider this. >>Well, you would not buy a dozen. You would be very sick if you ate a dozen pineapples. But they are very inexpensive. And _mangoes_ as well. _Papayas_. _Guavas_. Sorry I do not know the German word for this fruits. <<

>>Pineapples growing like weeds<< mused Florian, stroking his chin gently as if considering it. >>I am trying to imagine vacant lots and bombsites, all richly covered with stands of pineapples. What a sight that must be!<<

But my brain had raced on ahead, and was now considering what an odd word _Dozen_ was. "Dutzend" I said in German, and then repeated it until the sounds grew thin, and stripped of all meaning. "Dutzend, Dutzend, Dutzend."

"Score" said Florian, in English, and it took me a moment to realise that he meant the old-fashioned English word for twenty, not keeping score or tally in some game. "Gross. We have this word in German, _Grosse_ , but it means something different."

"A Gross," I said. "A hundred and forty-four. Twelve twelves. A dozen dozens. What is a Score? Twenty? I wonder why sometimes shopkeepers count in base ten - metric - and sometimes base twelve, and sometimes base twenty. Base ten, I understand. Ten fingers, easy to count. Base twenty - if you add toes. But base twelve? They all use it. Inches in a foot. Hours in a day. Signs of the Zodiac. Apostles in the Church. Why twelve? What's so special about twelve?"

He bent over quite close to me, and looked into my face, and for a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me, but he was only observing me, looking into my eyes. I looked back at his face, seeing his hair all glowing blue lines of electricity, a vein in his nose, the silvery threads of his irises, blood pumping just under his skin, at his temples. His whole face just seemed alive, pulsing with blood and energy and glowing with a sort of relaxed Florian-ness.

>>You are very high<< observed Florian.

I thought about that for a moment, but my thoughts seemed impossible to put back together, like butterflies flapping off into the void, like the sparks shimmering up into the cosmos. >>I suppose I am. Are you?<<

>>I am as high as a pylon<< he sighed. >>I feel like a communications tower, slender piles of filaments and metal cables stretching into the sky, and I have just slipped my tether and floated away.<<

I laughed, and picked up one of my pinecones, watching the way it seemed to pulse and quiver in my hand, glowing shards of life and energy pouring off it. Pinecones were alive, I realised with a shock! Inside them were tiny seeds, brimming with vitality and fertility. Well, this one I was holding in my hands was, it felt round and full and pregnant. But the one lying in my lap was dead, open and spent, just a bit of wood. And then it hit me. Pinecones were like flowers, they came in two forms, masculine and feminine, equivalent to the stamen and pistil in an angiosperm's flower.

>>Florian!<< I gasped, wondering how I had never fully grasped this before. >>Pinecones are the trees having sex!<<

Florian groaned loudly and flopped backwards onto the carpet of pine needles, putting his hands up to his face and rubbing his eyes vigourously. >>I am so tired of speaking of sex<< he said, in a deeply weary tone of voice. >>It is all anyone ever wants to talk about any more. Sex, sex, sex. No one cares about the life of the mind any more; it is all about the body.<<

I frowned. >>I don't talk about sex all the time. I don't like to talk about sex at all.<<

Florian cracked a smile at that, rolling over onto his side, resting his arm on his sharp hip as he looked at me carefully. >>I know you don't, and that's why I like you.<< But then his face clouded over, as a strand of dark hair flopped across his forehead. >>But Ralf... with Ralf, it is endlessly sex, sex, sex. Emil, as well. My god, it is like a competition for him. I like Emil, he is one of our closest friends, but his attitude towards women... I am embarrassed, sometimes.<<

Florian wasn't looking at me, he was looking down at the pile of pinecones between us, so I was able to watch him without feeling observed. >>I think, for young people, it is sometimes like this. It is like a competition, they treat it like a game.<< I said quietly.

>>For young men, perhaps<< said Florian moodily, as if he wasn't one himself.

>>For women, as well. Look at Silke<< I pointed out.

>>I do not want to play this game!<< Florian snapped. I had never seen him angry before; I had barely seen him emotional. >>I don't even find sex that interesting, as a thing to do. Do I shock you?<< Now he looked up at me, his pale, silvery-blue eyes large and dark in the dim light.

>>No.<< I shook my head, trying not to think about how unsatisfying the night with Ralf had been.

>>It is the thing I hate most about being a man<< Florian said, quite quietly. >>Being expected to display this thrusting sexuality and machismo, at all times. Well, I do not feel like a _man_. <<

Somewhere inside me, I felt something aching. Perhaps it was the drugs, perhaps I was hallucinating the whole thing, but it was shocking to hear articulated aloud, something I had felt for a long time, but had never had words to express. >>What do you feel like?<<

I don't know what I expected him to say, if I had really expected him to say _I feel like a woman_ , the way I had sometimes joked with Valerie, _well, when I'm with you, I feel like a Boy_. (That wasn't even the whole truth. I didn't feel like a girl _or_ a boy. I felt like a standard, regulation Human Being, and it annoyed me to be treated as 'A Girl' as if that were a separate species.) But what he did say surprised me more.  >>I feel like a brain in a jar, most of the time. I feel like a mind trapped in a meat-locker.<<

His words echoed in my mind for some time. A mind in a meat-locker. Fleischkühlraum. Cool-room-of-flesh. I thought about flesh, and how little passion I had felt with Ralf, how cool our coupling had been. Was I a mind in a meat-locker, too? >>My friends said that about you, when we met. That you weren't interested in girls, but you weren't interested in boys either. That you were only interested in machines.<<

He smiled, and laughed. >>Your friends said that about me? I think perhaps they know me better than I thought.<< I noticed he did not deny it. >>I do wonder, often, what it would be like to be a machine, to truly be a robot. To be completely dispassionate, precise.<< The smile widened. >>I think Ralf would shout at me less often, if I made less mistakes on the synthesiser when I try to play it with a keyboard. It's _improvisation_ , I tell him, but you know Ralf.<<

I laughed, because I did indeed know the precise way in which Ralf glared when Florian hit the occasional blue note, especially when the dissonance echoed down the chain of echo and delay. But something he said reminded me of another conversation we had had, about soundwaves and bass frequencies and erotic response, and for a moment, I wondered if he were telling the truth about hating sex. >>Do you think machines have sex?<< I asked, deliberately provocative. >>I mean, do you think that robots will, one day have sex?<<

Florian rolled over onto his back as he considered this, sitting up on his elbows as he stared off towards the campfire, thinking hard. He was so thin that his sharp hip bones showed through his overalls. >>I think, for machines, sex would be very different. It would be more like trees, none of these animal games of dominance and submission.<< Suddenly, he grew very excited, almost agitated. >>In fact, I think, if machines had sex, they would not exchange sperm, or pollen. They would exchange information. This would be the reason that robots would make love, to exchange data, like inserting a cable from one machine to another. Instead of male and female, there would be transmitter and receiver. In fact, with robots, there would be no reason for them to be male and female at all; they could be like flowers, both male and female, transmitting and receiving in equal quantities, like shortwave radio. Like the flowers of deciduous trees.<<

I smiled, feeling my face grow very warm. I liked Florian's ideas about sex. And for a terrible moment, I thought, well, despite his protestations that he was bored by sex: I bet Flori is a wonderful lover, I bet Flori is sensitive and understanding, and cares as much about _transmitting_ pleasure as he does receiving.  >>Do you think humans will ever make love with robots?<< I blurted out, though it was the obvious question. All of us who had read Asimov must have considered this question at one point or another.

He stared off into the middle distance, his eyes unfocused, even on the bonfire. I kept being distracted by it, the noise of the drumming sending sharp little patterns of interference across my vision like neon rain, but Florian seemed absorbed in his internal world. I wondered what he saw when he hallucinated.

>>The question is<< said Florian at last. >>Can a robot consent to sex with a human?<<

>>It does not matter> I shrugged. >>A computer is completely programmable. A computer only ever does exactly what you tell it to do - which is the annoying, frustrating thing about computer programmes. They are so literal, you tell it to jump in a dry lake, and it goes and... _jumps_. In a dry lake. <<

The metaphor did not quite work in German, and Florian laughed at my literal translation. >>Yes, but that's precisely it. If you program the robot to have sex with you, what choice does it have in the matter? It is just following a routine. Where is the fun in that? Where is the _love_ in that? This is not communication, the free flow of data which computers would consider love; this is just another form of domination. I am not interested in dominating a robot, with code or with sex. I would want someone with whom I could communicate. Transmit, and receive. <<

I stared at Florian, feeling my stomach lurching. For a horrible moment, I wondered if I had not boiled all of the poison out of the amanita, but then I realised it was not my stomach. It was my heart, beating so wildly that I had to gasp a little for breath. I felt myself pierced by something so sharp, I thought I might die of hunger, or cold, or the desire for oxygen, of some sharp desperate _wanting_. And then I realised, as I felt the moisture gathering by the seam of my jeans, that what I wanted was Flori. How bizarre it was, after this long conversation about not desiring flesh, to suddenly find myself desiring one man's mind so acutely.

We fell silent, both of us full of our thoughts, him watching the shadows swirl and dance and form elegant geometric patterns around the bonfire, and me watching him. But after some time, I saw one of the shadows detach itself from the swirling, cloudy mass and start to move up the slope towards us. As it neared us, I saw the dark clouds resolve into the vague outline of long brown hair, a motorcycle jacket, leather trousers and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Ralf. His face was flushed from drumming, and he looked very excited, perhaps even aroused.

>>What are you two talking about, squirrelled away up here?<< he asked, not jealous so much as just curious, as he spread himself on the ground next to me.

>>Machines. Maths. Pineapples<< supplied Florian, in a perfectly matter of fact voice.

Ralf laughed >>But of course you are. You two are both so emotionally cold, sometimes I think both of you are half machine.<<

>>Maybe you are attracted to our coldness<< said Florian, dispassionately. It was an odd thing to say, but Ralf did not seem to notice its oddness.

>>You are my little machine, yes<< he said, snaking his hand across my hips. I should really have pushed him off me, knowing how wrong it was to entertain thoughts of one man when my heart was completely filled with another, but in my aroused state, I _liked_ it, how Ralf was touching me. As he rolled over towards me, I noticed for the first time how those tight black leather trousers clung to the form of his hips and his thighs, and realised that they produced a slightly visceral erotic response in me. Ralf's trousers were _sexy_ , I thought to myself with a shock.

So when he nuzzled his mouth against my hair, searching for a kiss, I turned my head and I kissed him, full on the mouth, with a hunger that must have taken him by surprise. Finally he pulled away, laughing but happy. >>The mushrooms, I think, are making everybody very horny. Emil has suggested that there might be an orgy.<< Here he laughed, even as Florian made a distasteful expression with his face. >>The problem is, the one girl that Emil wants to have an orgy with, she is lying five feet away, in a tent with this Flür character.<<

>>You stay for the orgy. I am not interested in such things<< said Florian, standing, picking up his flute and starting to walk off.

>>Oh, Flori<< sighed Ralf, extricating himself from my embrace and walking after him. >>Wait. Are you going back to our tent?<<

>>Yes, but do not worry. I will stay in the lounge, and will not disturb you if you wish to make love with the girl. I will read a book.<< As Florian spoke, I felt as if I had been slapped in the face. How casually I had been demoted from "Zhan" to "that girl"!

>>You will read a book, in this state?<< laughed Ralf. >>How do you read a book when the words are dancing about the page like sparks from the bonfire?<<

>>I will play my flute, then. Or listen to Schubert!<< Florian insisted, though his face seemed much more upset than his voice. >>I don't see how this concerns you.<<

>>Flori...<< said Ralf, realising that his friend was upset, as Florian turned and fixed him with an evil look. Well, not so much evil, as sad and desperate and quite, quite unhappy. I wanted to go to him, and put my arms around him, but Ralf was already touching him gently about the shoulders, trying to calm him.

But Florian shrugged him off, batting away the sympathy as he snapped, sharply >>Go! Make love with the girl. See if I care.<< Defeated, Ralf dropped his arms and watched him walk away.

>>Is he alright?<< I asked, even as Ralf was putting his hands up to my face and cupping my chin to kiss me.

>>He will be fine<< he assured me. >>If you have not gathered by now, our friend Flori is a very, very odd man. He has... what do they say in English. He has two characters, a Jeckyll and Hyde thing. Most of the time, he is sweet-tempered, lovely Flori, but then... like the weather changes. He goes with the wind. It's like his circuits are just overloaded, and off he goes, angry at something. He will be back in twenty minutes, as if it never happened, mark my words.<<

For a moment, I was torn. I wanted to turn and chase after Flori, to put my arms around him and press my head against his chest and tell him not to be angry. But Ralf was tugging at my arm.

>>Come back to the tent with me<< he urged. >>I want to have a fuck with you.<<

I almost burst at laughing at the ridiculous bluntness of his words, the clumsiness of his grammar. Have a fuck? Do a fuck? Give a fuck? What was this crazy word fuck that could be both a noun or a verb, both in English and in German. But I did as I was told, letting him take my hand and pull me back to our tent. I did not know if it was the aphrodisiac effect of the drug, or the conversation with Flori, but I too was now very aroused. The idea of sex with Ralf now was... well, although it was not ideal, it no longer seemed quite so distasteful. Or perhaps in that state, my senses heightened by the drugs, my heart racing from the drumming, I would have had a fuck with anyone, perhaps even the odious Flür.

We took off our muddy boots in the porch of the tent, then crawled inside, first me, then him, pretending to bite at my arse through the seat of my jeans. He cast about in the dark of the tent for a few moments, then struck a match, illuminating his face like an odd mask, his high cheekbones and his strong jaw rippling in the light, even as the drug made his skin seem to ripple back and forth, as if he were made of fire. The tiny bit of walking, from bonfire to tent, seemed to have shaken up my bloodstream and sent the hallucinogen coursing through my brain again, so that the long shadows seemed to dance and writhe. As he lit first one lamp, then the other, I crawled backwards into the little nest of sleeping bags that Florian had made in the sleeping quarters. As Ralf kneeled in front of me, pulling off first his leather jacket, then his heavy woollen shirt, I lay back and put my head down on the pillows. And I knew at once why Florian had chosen this spot for our camp. The tent had been pitched facing away from the brook, but the sleeping chamber at the back was only a few feet above it. And softly, but quite distinctly, as I lay, I could hear the gentle, soothing burbling of the water.

>>Listen!<< I said, falling silent, and letting the sound dance across my hearing, like tiny endless curls of lamplight were dancing across my vision.

Ralf stopped, and cocked his head. In the lamplight, his bare chest, though flabby and soft with inaction, was as white and hairless as a sheet of marble. A thin spattering of golden-brown hairs covered his forearms, and crept up his belly from the waist of his leather jeans, but the rest of him was as pale as something one would find under a rock.

I closed my eyes and listened to the brook, even as I felt Ralf slide in beside me. The throbbing need between my legs did not seem quite so urgent, confronted with the bare facts of his body, even as he started to touch me and move against me, pulling off my long jumper then unfastening my jeans.

And then I realised that another sound had joined that of the babbling brook. Softly, ever so quietly, the soprano tones of a piccolo flute were echoing the sounds of the brook almost exactly. >>No, listen!<< I urged, as Ralf's hands moved downward, and reached my bare arse.

Ralf stopped trying to kiss me, and cocked his head to listen, though his fingers still played against my skin, grabbing and kneading at my buttocks. >>It's Flori<< he said with a smile. >>He is trying to talk with the brook.<<

I laughed with something like relief. The music was making me feel good, feel happy, and I did not mind so much being wrapped up in Ralf's arms, maybe even moving towards him and pushing his hair out of the way to kiss his neck. >>What a wonderful thing to do<< I said, wrapping my legs about Ralf's, trying not to think about how I wished the body in my embrace was a different body, taller, thinner, more angular, with a tongue of dark fur up the centre of the chest.

The conversation with the brook was growing more animated outside, as Ralf's and my attentions to one another's bodies grew more urgent, kissing, sucking, wrestling skin against skin. _Burble, spalsh, pitter-patter_ , went the brook. _Bee-bop, splooff, fiffle-faffle_ , went the flute. It was amazing how Florian seemed able to pull both music out of the water's sounds, and such human-sounding tones out of the flute, mimicking the cadence and rhythm of German almost exactly.

>>Are they having an argument, or are they making love, do you think<< I asked, wondering which indeed we were doing, as I clawed at his back, wanting him inside me, though he only seemed to be teasing me. I pushed his leather jeans off his hips and kicked them away from us, until they, too, were just another blanket in the bundle of our nest.

>>Flori doesn't argue<< said Ralf, very breathily, rubbing his organ back and forth between my legs without penetrating me.. >>Haven't you noticed that? He will never contradict you directly. He will always say something like _Yes, yes, and also..._ and then say exactly the opposite of whatever you just intended. <<

The more he spoke of Florian, the more aroused I became, bucking against Ralf, trying to get him inside me. >>But if he's very cross with you, he doesn't speak at all. He just sits there and glares at you, with a look that could frighten fire.<<

>>Do you know, when he was young, he didn't speak at all?<< laughed Ralf, who was now concentrating on trying to get my nipples to stand up against his chest. >>The story goes, he never spoke, and his parents were so concerned they took him to a doctor, but his chest, his throat, all were normal, he just didn't want to talk. Then one day, when he is five years old, he speaks up at the breakfast table to say, _Mother, this porridge is absolutely awful_. <<

I laughed at how perfectly he imitated the exact cadences of Florian's speech, right down to the slight burr in his throat.

>>Evamaria and Paul gathered round, gasping and exclaiming, _Flori, you can speak! Why did you never speak to us before?_ And Flori just looks at them with that terrifying silver death-glare of his, and says, _well, up until now, the porridge has been OK._ <<

>>You are a liar<< I said, even as I laughed. >>That is an old joke.<<

>>It is the truth, I had it from Mother-Kraftwerk herself<< he insisted, and at that, he spoke no more, finally digging his arms under me to raise my hips, then pushing all the way inside.

Oh Christ, I thought, bracing my knees and trying to push up against him. My whole body felt like it was burning with _wanting_ , even as I knew that this, this grotesque physical act was exactly what it wanted. But the wanting did not seem to go away once he was inside me, it just seemed to grow worse and worse until I was grinding against him, trying to get him to go deeper, a crescendo of _wanting_ building inside me.

Ralf's face had gone very flushed, concentrating almost as intently as when he played his organ, though he was raised up on his elbows, hammering away at me. I moved the angle of my hips, trying to chase that brief fluttering of pleasure I knew would come if we kept this up.

And then, abruptly, Ralf's face changed. His lips parted, his breaths grew shallow, and then he sighed, as his whole body shuddered, and he stopped moving, his face dusted lightly with sweat as relief seemed to pour out of him and onto me. >>Oh Chan<< he breathed lightly. >>I love you so much.<<

My eyes snapped wide open as I realised he was finished. >>Ralf!<< I cried, disappointed, as he pulled out of me, then slumped gently back against the sleeping bags, catching his breath.

He just lay beside me, kissing me as he pushed his hair out of my face. "Libeling" he said, dreamily.

I wanted to hit him, it seemed so unfair and unjust, that he could be lying there, sated and happy, while I was still on fire with this half-finished business, all revved up with nowhere to go. Desperately, I tugged at him, trying to get him back between my thighs to finish what he had started.

>>You are eager<< he laughed. >>I always suspected that your cool exterior would hide a tiger in the sack. But you have to wait 15, maybe 20 minutes before I am ready to go again.<<

>>Ralf>. I snapped, and I knew it was cruel, what I said, but it must be said. >>You do know, in a fuck, it is customary for a woman to have orgasm, too!<<

Ralf lay back, his eyes snapping open, staring at me with a mixture of surprise and growing alarm. >>Of course. I have read Freud, after all.<<

I was moving against him again, trying to rub some life into his organ to get it to rise again. >>Do you think it happens automatically, then?<< I hissed.

Pure astonishment covered his features. >>Does it not?<< It was the first time I had ever seen a moment of self doubt break into that customary expression of petulant arrogance. >>I had never really considered it.<<

>>Consider it<< I demanded, closing my fist around his penis. >>Now.<<

>>Wait, wait, I need a drink<< protested Ralf, putting his hands to his face and rubbing his eyes. I let him go as he sat up, sweaty brown hair cascading all over his shoulders. But as he turned and started to climb to his knees, he abruptly stopped, and stared, gaping.

For a moment, I didn't understand. But then I followed his eyes. For there, sitting in the main part of the tent, wearing his pink and burgundy striped pyjamas, watching us, entranced, though a kaleidoscope he kept turning, turning, turning with his long, elegant fingers, was Florian.


	16. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of a magic mushroom trip, Florian walks in on Ralf and Jan, and from there, things get very strange.
> 
> The love triangle takes on a twist; as Ralf is in love with Jan, but Jan is in love with Florian... is Florian really in love with Ralf? The morning after delivers some harsh truth for all.

None of us spoke for an almost unbearable length of time. Ralf and I, both naked, both slightly sweaty and tousled from our tumble, stared at Florian, while Florian stared calmly but silently back through the single eye of the kaleidoscope. Finally, I took a deep breath and broke the ice. >>How long have you been there?<< I asked quietly, feeling conflicting emotions tangling in my mind. I should have been embarrassed, I knew, to have been lying there, naked and despoiled before the man I loved, but the drug was still clouding and twisting everything. All I could think was that I was happy that Florian was nearby, smiling at us as he lowered the kaleidoscope.

>>Long enough.<< he said, diplomatically.

>>Well, since you're closest, get us a fucking drink, if you don't mind.<< said Ralf, lying back against the mat and trying to pull a sleeping bag across his naked groin.

Florian did as he was asked, went to the bottle of scotch and poured three tumblers. On his knees, he shuffled through into the sleeping chamber and handed one to Ralf, deposited another by my head, then turned aside, trying to dig through the pile of sleeping bags, blankets and pillows. >>Do you mind if I... extract my sleeping bag<< he said, quite calmly, pulling a paisley patterned roll from where it had been rumpled up by my head. Again, he raised it to his face and sniffed slightly, and smiled, before unrolling it on the other side of the chamber. >>Please... carry on if you wish<< he said, to my curious stare. >>I do not mind.<<

True to his words, he sat up on his haunches, and fussed with some strings I had not noticed before on the roof of the tent, which seemed to hold another rolled sheet of canvas, similar to the one dividing the sleeping chamber from the main compartment. This one, though, seemed to divide the sleeping chamber in two, though it would have bisected Ralf's body had it been unrolled.

>>Don't do that<< said Ralf, irritated, pushing Florian's hand away from the ties. >>It's not fair for you to have a whole half when there are two of us and only one of you.<<

>>As you wish.<< Florian shrugged, and unzipped his sleeping bag, then lay his long body inside it, and zipped it up again from inside. But he did not roll over and go to sleep, he just lay there, looking at us. The sleeping bag, I realised with a start, was not paisley, it was polka-dotted, and the dots seemed to move about, shifting and gliding and forming into complex patterns and arrangements. If I was still hallucinating, that meant that all three of us were probably still deep into our mushroom trip, and if Florian was staring at me, evenly, unconcernedly, he might not be looking at my naked body at all, he might just be seeing lines and planes and curves disconnected from any human being. But still, his looking at me seemed to inflame the desire that would not leave me alone.

>>Where were we?<< I asked, pulling Ralf's face back towards me, to kiss him.

>>Oh<< said Ralf, as if realising that I had no intention of allowing this interruption to stop my needs. >>Yes.<< As he turned his body towards me, I realised that he was growing hard again, as if being watched by Florian was exciting him, as well. He climbed on top of me, and kissed me, and I did not have to close my eyes and think of Florian to become excited; I only glanced over to see him, nothing but his face and bright eyes visible above the rim of his sleeping bag, watching us in return.

>>Have you ever thought about what an odd thing kissing is<< Florian said, at last. >>I am sure it must serve some evolutionary function, the exchange of saliva. Perhaps prehistoric cave people used to taste one another to assess their fertility or suitability for mating.<<

Ralf raised his head slowly from our kiss and turned to look at his friend. >>Do you _mind_? <<

>>No, I told you. I don't mind at all<< said Florian, missing the meaning and taking it completely literally. >>It is interesting to watch, to try to understand why humans are so obsessed with this copulating business.<<

>>If it didn't feel good in some way, then surely people would not do it at all<< I said, as Ralf buried his face in my neck and started to nibble gently below my ear. >>Even kissing, I suppose, though that's not so nice when you're not expecting it.<<

Ralf raised his head and looked down at me with a slightly hurt expression. >>Thanks<< he said petulantly.

>>No, I don't understand the appeal of kissing either<< said Florian matter of factly, shaking his head, though I saw his eyes slide downward to where Ralf was pushing his way between my legs. >>I suppose it is the oral pleasure, like Freud said. The pleasure of eating, of biting, the pleasure of a child at the breast<< As he said this, Ralf's mouth was against my breasts, pulling my nipples to life roughly.

>>Kissing is different if you really love someone<< Ralf said between mouthfuls, trying to grab chunks of my small breasts and take them into his mouth. >>If you love someone so much you wish to devour them.<<

>>Is it<< mused Florian, rolling over onto one side, facing towards us. The sleeping bag changed sharp alarmingly.

I don't know what devilish urge came over me, as I thought of what Ralf had said in the hotel that morning. >>Maybe you should kiss Ralf<< I suggested, just teasing really, not really believing that either of them would do it. >>If you have the Romantic-Friendship, then you love each other, yes?<<

>>Yes<< said Florian without hesitation. >>We do.<<

Ralf stopped, and looked down at me sharply, several emotions I could not read seeming to pass across his face. Anger, that furious frown, but then fear, and finally something approaching curiosity. I knew he had thought about it, he had told me as much, back in the hotel. Despite everything, despite the drugs, the oddness of the whole evening, what happened next shocked me to the core, because Ralf actually rolled off me, then inched his way over so that he was lying between us.

For a moment, they just looked at one another, those silvery eyes connecting with the dark blue, then Ralf reached out and cupped Florian's face between his hands and pulled it down towards him. They kissed. I could not believe my eyes, wondering if I was still hallucinating from the mushrooms, but I blinked, and blinked again, and it was still happening. Ralf was kissing Flori, really putting some muscle into it, as I could see his jaw working away, and I knew how he would snake his powerful tongue inside. Flori remained more passive; his mouth opened, and he closed his eyes, but his jaw did not move, letting Ralf take the lead.

I recognised, with some part of my conscious mind, that I should have been jealous. Here, after all, was the man I was in love with, kissing the man who was supposed to be my boyfriend. But the burning desire between my legs now was like a furnace. It was odd how, in many ways, watching Ralf kissing someone else was far more exciting than actually kissing Ralf. But perhaps that was only because the person he was kissing was the person I wanted to kiss more than anyone else in the world.

But after only a few minutes, Florian broke the embrace, pulling away and shaking his head. >>I'm sorry, but please stop. Maybe kissing is just not for me.<<

>>I don't know<< said Ralf, as he shifted back over to my side of the bed, clambered onto me and abruptly, almost roughly entered me. >>It felt good to me.<<

I cried out at little, then caught my breath. I had to be honest; it did feel good, when I was consumed with that yawning, gaping sensation of desire. With Florian so close by, especially after the kissing, that feeling of excitement, of arousal was almost at a crescendo, and Ralf was so agitated he was almost attacking me. For a terrible moment, as my vision clouded with hosts of tiny, dancing mushrooms, and there was a roaring like blood in my ears, I was consumed with an awful thought. What if _both_ of us, would really rather have Flori in our arms?

>>Ralf<< I said, first gently, then insistently, tugging at his shoulders to tell me he was hurting me. But he relented, and looked down into my eyes, the sensory maelstrom clearing. >>Let me go on top?<<

He grinned and nodded, and we switched places, as he lay back, panting, in the pile of blankets, and let me climb on top of him, straddling him like a horse. This way was definitely better, I thought, as I started to move, grinding against him, putting pressure in the right place for me, feeling that tight fluttery feeling growing between my legs. Ralf's head flopped to one side, as he looked across at Flori and smiled, raising his eyebrows as he pulled his lips back to reveal wolfish teeth. >>It feels so good; you have no idea<< he repeated, as wave after wave of pleasure broke across his face.

I looked down at Flori, who broke Ralf's gaze, and looked slowly, nervously up at me. Neither of us smiled, we just looked warily at one another, me so terrified that if I moved the muscles of my face at all, he would see all of my desire for him written there. And him, who knew what Flori was ever thinking, with those inscrutable ice-blue eyes and that perpetually curious expression. As I ground myself against Ralf, working myself into more and more of a excitement, I saw the zipper on Florian's sleeping bag start to move. A hand was extended, tentatively, and I saw it snake out, and up towards my breast, until it closed around my nipple, touching with extreme sensitivity. At that moment, I could hold out no more. I threw my head back and grinned at the ceiling, feeling my head open up to the stars above as orgasm started to pulse across my body. I wanted to sing, to scream, to thrash about, tossing hair I no longer had. One touch from Flori was all it had taken.

>>Was that it?<< I heard Ralf's voice say, a very long way away, as if calling from the bottom of a deep well. >>Was that the elusive female orgasm?<<

Flori removed his hand from my breast, and transferred it down to Ralf's chest, feeling for the pink nub of his nipple, as I realised what he was doing, and wanted to laugh. It was as if he was conducting an experiment, trying to see if male or female nipples aroused him more. But it was too late; I could see from the stupid, glazed expression on Ralf's face that he, too, was about to come, as if he had been holding himself back, trying to perform for my orgasm alone. Seizing my hips, he held me in place, thrusting up into me as the last echoes of my own climax reverberated across my body.

Finally, I slumped back against him, touching my forehead against his for a moment, before climbing off him and collapsing into the pile of pillows between him and the wall of the tent. I felt exhausted, completely spent, and more than a little bit fucked up. The throbbing anguish between my legs had finally subsided, leaving me with what I could only describe as a deep sense of peace. But as I wrapped my arm around Ralf's waist and tucked my head into the crease between his arm and his chest, I realised with a dull pain that actually, the _wanting_ had not. I knew, as surely as I could feel that Ralf's semen was now trickling down my leg, that my feelings for Flori had not changed, had not gone away, they had only retreated, tucked themselves somewhere deeper inside of me that Ralf would never reach, no matter how hard he thrust into me with his cock.

The walls seemed to be rippling slightly, and I wondered if the damn hallucinations were going to come back with a vengeance, after that burst of exertion. But no, a peel of thunder off in the distance made me realise that it was raining. So much for the bonfire...

I raised my head to ask Ralf if we needed to do anything to secure the tent against the rain, but then I froze. I will never be entirely certain if what I saw was real, or another trick of the mushrooms, but it seemed to me that Ralf had extended his arm, pushing it down into Florian's sleeping bag, and that underneath the muffling coverings, there was a distinct, furtive movement. Florian was breathing heavily, his head thrown back, his eyes slits, and then all of a sudden, he sighed, a deep trembling sigh, and lay still.

As I shifted to lie back down, Ralf noticed my movement. >>What is it?<< he asked, kissing the top of my head softly.

>>It's started to rain<< I told him. >>Do we need to do anything?<<

>>I told you, the tent is completely waterproof<< Ralf assured me. >>But sometimes there is condensation on the inside of the canvas. If you don't want to get damp, come and sleep on the inside.<< Taking me gently by the arms, he pulled me up and across his chest, until I was lying in the slight depression between him and Florian. As his hand left me, I realised that it had been wet, not with the cool clamminess of the rain, but with something warm and ever so slightly sticky. >>Here, don't catch a chill after we have been exerting ourselves<< he directed, pulling one of the thick, fluffy wool blankets from the pile above our heads and spreading it across both our naked bodies.

I looked over at Florian, but Florian was wrapped up in his sleeping bag again, completely snug, his eyes shut tightly as if fast asleep.

>>Go to sleep, Liebling<< Ralf said, kissing my face softly, then wrapping his arms around me and curling all around me, exactly, as Myrthe had described, like a limpet.

\----------

When I woke, it was no longer raining. It was not quite dawn yet, but the sky had started to lighten just enough to make the ceiling of the tent slightly translucent, casting a blueish glow on my surroundings. Ralf was still tightly coiled around me, his chin on my shoulder, his arm about my waist, his cock semi-erect against the back of my thighs. But on my other side, someone was curled into a tight ball, a dark head of hair resting gently against my breast. I inhaled and smelled his distinctive scent. Flori. I barely dared to breathe, for fear of disturbing him, though I was fighting the urge to reach down and smooth the wild mass of his hair, petting him like an animal or a small child.

I wanted to lie there forever, basking in the warmth of my two boys, both wrapped tightly around me, but the call of my bladder was too strong. If I did not go outside and relieve myself, I was afraid I would piss all over the sleeping bags the moment that anyone squeezed me. So gently but firmly, I nudged Ralf and removed his arm from my waist. He murmured slightly, then rolled over, starting to snore as he shifted back into sleep, on his back. The snoring must have disturbed Florian, as he moved slightly, burying his head deeper into my chest. At any other time, I might have found the movement of his stiff hair against my bare nipples slightly erotic, but I still felt fit to burst. I touched his hair gently, like a question.

"Maman" said Flori and only clenched me even tighter.

>>Flori, let go of me<< I urged, and bent down to press a kiss into the crown of that unruly hair before gently pushing him away.

Finally, I had extricated myself from the pair of them, and stumbled towards the door. I found a dressing gown - thick, warm, wine-coloured velvet that smelled faintly of Florian's aftershave - and thrust my feet into the first pair of available boots - Ralf's, almost exactly the right size for me - and made my way outside into the pale silvery blue of the morning.

The rain had cleared, but a fine mist hung all around the brook, making the landscape look almost supernaturally beautiful. The petrichor of fresh earth and beech mast filled my nostrils as I headed away from the water, looking for privacy. After a few minutes' walk, I decided I didn't care, and squatted down behind a large stand of holly bushes to relieve myself. When I was finished, I covered my evidence with a small pile of beech leaves, then turned around to find myself face to face with another early-morning riser with its back to me, doing the exact same thing, hair completely covering its androgynous face like a witch from a fairy-story.

>>Oh my god, I'm so sorry<< I sputtered.

>>Sorry! Didn't even see you!<< The hair parted with a sheepish grin. Michael. >>You don't have any paper, by any chance, do you?<<

I dug in the pockets of the dressing gown, and was rewarded with some tissues. >>I have no idea how clean these are...<<

>>Don't care<< laughed Michael, as I discretely turned away, waiting until I heard the evidence of him digging a hole to cover his own evidence. >>This is the undignified part of taking your beloved for a little tryst in the woods.<<

I laughed as we fell into step on our way back to the camp. >>Next you'll be telling me I can't have a warm shower and hot toast for breakfast.<<

>>You will have to ask your lover to drive you a long way back to civilisation for that<< Michael teased, then looked at me with an odd expression.

I felt my face burning, as I guessed exactly what that expression meant. Which one of the two men I shared my tent with was my lover? Everyone knew I had loved Florian. Everyone knew I had fucked Ralf. >>Are you and Myrthe heading back today or are you staying through until Monday?<< I asked, trying desperately to change the subject.

>>I don't know. I really want to go to the Anti-Vietnam demo tomorrow, but I am rather at the mercy of Wolfgang and his little romantic intrigues.<< He rolled his eyes to indicate what he thought of this.

>>You know<< I said, as we came in view of our tents. >>The Volkswagen will actually carry five, if you want to come back with us. Given I will probably be seeing a lot more of you from now on.<<

Michael bit his lip as if considering something. >>You know, I'm not actually going to be joining Power Station, no matter how fun the jam session last night was<< he said softly. >>I am loyal to Wolfgang. Though you can tell Ralf that his offer is very, very tempting...<<

I shot him an odd expression. >>I meant because of Myrthe, my roommate?<<

His face suddenly took on a very guilty expression. >>Oh, of course.<<

When I crept back into the tent, abandoning Ralf's shoes at the door, I found that Ralf and Flori had curled up together in their sleep, Flori's head resting gently against Ralf's chest. They didn't look like men at all, despite the dark stubble of their beards on their chins; they looked like small wild things, not even boys but some kind of baby animals, wolf cubs or lions or some such, just tossed together in abandon. I almost didn't want to wake them, as I slipped off Flori's bathrobe and stood just inside the door to the sleeping chamber.

But Ralf moved first, shifting in his sleep and trying to pull Flori closer, wrapping his arm about him and pulling him closer, burying his face in the other man's hair and muttering >>Liebling.<< For a moment, they just lay together like that, but then it slowly became obvious to Ralf that something was wrong. The girl he had spent the past two nights with had hair that was short - short and blonde - while his companion had long, dark hair. He moved his hand, up across the chest of his companion, and started to grope about at the silk pyjamas as if wondering what was wrong. I did not have much of a chest, to be sure, but I certainly had more in the way of breasts than Flori.

Ralf's eyes snapped open, and he looked down with alarm, quickly extricating himself, and pulling back. This woke Flori, annoyed to have lost his pillow, who slowly opened his eyes like a startled fox cub and looked about, blinking. Florian did not seem that bothered by the situation, observing it dispassionately, perhaps even with bemusement, but Ralf was clearly shaken, looking about wildly, until he saw the nude woman standing framed in the door.

<Chan<< he said, his voice shaking wildly, his eyes begging me for some explanation, to tell me that what appeared to be was most definitely not. I shook my head slowly. >>My god, last night was crazy<< he finally managed to stutter. >>Those mushrooms of Klaus's... wow. Who would have thought. I'm surprised he didn't poison us all.<<

>>They were nice<< Florian ventured, smiling encouragingly, with an openness that seemed to be trying to tell Ralf that he didn't regret or begrudge a thing. >>Much nicer than his LSD. I enjoyed myself immensely.<<

>>Wow, I don't remember much after the party. Not much at all!<< declared Ralf, pulling the blanket up about him, before looking suspiciously down at Florian's body, still wrapped in the pink and burgundy pyjamas. >>Well, you at least are dressed, so it can be inferred that _you_ must not have misbehaved too badly. << Raising his own blanket slightly, he feigned surprise at his nakedness and baldly stated >>Oh my goodness. How embarrassing.<< He looked up at me with a frankly panicked expression, and stared at me helplessly. >>Liebling, please. Put some clothes on. You will embarrass Flori, who is delicate about these matters.<<

As I looked about, I found the long jumper, and pulled it over my head, Florian stared at Ralf, hard, his face twitching from an unhappy sort of disappointment to a deliberately blank expression. >>You don't remember anything about last night, then?<< he asked carefully, almost imploringly. I could see it in his eyes, that he was trying to give Ralf a chance to come clean, to confess, to admit it, and find absolution or even acceptance.

But Ralf panicked and completely blew it. >>Not a thing<< he insisted. >>I don't remember anything. Nothing. I remember playing the drums with Michael and Klaus and Wolfgang, and then... nothing. Nothing after I left the bonfire. Liebling, are you just going to stand there, shouldn't you take your birth control pill?<<

>>Yes, I will<< I said, but as I bent down to search through my pack, Florian looked up and caught my eye. It was obvious from the pained, poignant expression there, that he remembered everything. And not just recalled it, but was disappointed, maybe even angry with Ralf for pretending he didn't. For a moment, we just stared at one another, but finally I could take no more of those ice-blue eyes. >>I'm sorry<< I mouthed at him, then dropped my gaze to the packet of pills, swallowing one with the remnants of his whiskey in a tumbler on the floor.

>>Well<< said Ralf, wrapping his blanket around his waist as he stood up. >>I am going to attempt to bathe in our little brook. Alone, if you please.<< And with this, he collected his pack, and walked stiffly to the door.

Florian lay back against the pile of pillows, and stared up at the ceiling with a blank expression on his face. I wanted to go to him and throw my arms around him and kiss him, or at least just lay my head against his chest. But instead, I just stood in the door limply, looking about for something for breakfast.

>>Oh, Flori<< I finally said, as I located some granola bars.

He looked up at me expectantly, then cupped his hands, indicating that I should throw him one. >>Thank you<< he said, quite formally, with far more politeness than was really necessary.

>>Flori, I'm sorry<< I managed to stutter.

<Sorry for what<< Florian said, with a slightly irritated burr to his voice.

>>I am so sorry that he's being such an ass and pretending that none of it happened.<<

Florian's face was a perfect blank. >>None of _what_ happened. << he stated, with a finality that indicated that he considered the matter closed.

But I moved forward, crawling into the sleeping chamber and touching him gently on his bare, exposed foot to try to get his attention. >>Flori, I know he doesn't want to talk about it, but if you do... I'm here...<<

The expression with which he glared at my hand, touching his foot, could have frozen the Rhine two metres thick. >>Zhan<< he said, with a calmness and coldness that almost frightened me. >>You are Ralf's girlfriend. I don't really think that it is appropriate, you touching me in this fashion.<<

I removed the offending hand, rubbing it as if it had been burned. There were so many words that couldn't come, so many possible futures I wanted to run by him, so many ways I waned to enlist his help in trying to get me out of this relationship I had never really wanted to enter into. It flashed before my eyes again, the way that I had come, the moment he touched my breast, and my tongue faltered, and I couldn't find the words. Maybe I should have pushed it, maybe I should have reached up and slipped my lumpy jumper up over my head, and crawled into his sleeping bag with him, pressing my body against his and trying to teach him exactly how nice kissing could be.

But instead, I just knelt there at his feet, rubbing my hand. >>That is all I will ever be, to you?<< I whispered.

Florian wouldn't even meet my eyes. >>You are my _best friend_ 's lover. And, I hope, still, _my_ friend. <<

>>But no more<< I said, pleadingly.

He did not answer, but merely shook his head, so fast the motion was almost violent.

I turned away from him, and pulled down the divider canvas, then gave myself a lukewarm spongebath by the butane stove, and dressed quickly before fleeing the tent. Whatever it was that had happened between the three of us the previous night it was clear from both of them that it had changed nothing. That it would change nothing. That I was stuck being Ralf's girlfriend, and that I better just learn to like it.


	17. Berger Allee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ralf and his scheming, Jan has found herself as Ralf's girlfriend, and Michael has found himself as Power Station's guitarist.
> 
> In order to be closer to both girlfriend and band, Ralf moves in with Emil, but this situation soon proves awkward for everyone.

None of us hung about for very long on Sunday. Myrthe and I ate a somewhat subdued lunch with the rest of our friends around the ashes of the campfire, watching people try to function through their hangovers, and trying to guess which couples had paired off during the rumoured orgy. With the morning light, Wolfgang seemed to have completely lost interest in Silke, and had transferred his attentions to some other girls I didn't know. Emil, rather than welcoming her back with open arms, was ignoring her in favour of gossiping with Greta - who we all knew had a boyfriend at Uni up in Hamburg, so it was even more of a pointed snub.

Ralf seemed distant, distracted, and finally announced that he was worried about his automobile. He didn't trust the mechanic who had worked on the VW, and wanted to go back to Düsseldorf to see if his favoured repair shop was open on the Bank Holiday. 

Michael, as predicted, took that as a cue to ask for a ride. >>Can you give Myrthe and myself a ride back to Düsseldorf? There is a big Peace Rally at the University on Monday, with a demonstration that I should attend.<<

>>But what about your tent?<< asked Wolfgang pointedly. >>You can't fit that in that tiny Beetle.<<

>>I thought maybe you would carry it back for us...<< suggested Michael, but Wolfgang looked at him darkly.

>>We're already full up and we need the extra space, as I said I'd give Lisa and Suzette a ride back<< Wolfgang shrugged, causing a minor explosion from Silke, who abruptly stood up, tossed the rest of her coffee onto the fire and stormed off.

>>You can pack it all into my van<< said Klaus with a wide smile. >>Plenty of room in there for all of you - though Michael, you'll have to come and pick up your gear at the Schneider-Eslebens' house - or I could drop it off for you at the workshop on Mintropstrasse, as that's closer to your squat... Hey, or you could even drop by for a jam session while you're there?<<

Florian took a deep breath. >>How about me, Klaus? Could you give me a ride home, as I would prefer to stay through until Monday.<<

>> _Dude_ , I am going to your house<< pointed out Klaus.

>>Then it's settled.<< Florian grinned widely, and helped himself to another cup of coffee from the large carafe by Klaus's feet. >>I will stay until Monday and ride home with Klaus.<<

I packed up my clothes, and crammed them into the Beetle's luggage compartment the best I could, as Michael and Ralf would be travelling in the front, leaving Myrthe and me to share the back seat. Florian helped us carry our things out to the parking lot, to load what we couldn't transport into Klaus's van. We packed in everything, bar only a couple of bags and Myrthe's rolled-up sleeping bag. We all waved as Ralf turned the car around, and headed back out down the long, wooded drive back to the village, but only I turned around and stared at Florian as we left, watching his forlorn looking figure growing smaller and smaller and smaller, until finally he disappeared behind a bend in the road.

Myrthe shivered slightly, then unrolled her sleeping bag and spread it across both of our knees. >>There. Isn't that cosy?<< she said.

>>So<< said Michael, fiddling with the radio. >>When you tour... how much do you generally get paid for a television appearance?<<

<Well. That's negotiable<< said Ralf, diplomatically, and the pair of them started to discuss money.

And so, Ralf became my boyfriend. And by the time we got back to Düsseldorf, Michael had agreed to officially audition as the new guitarist for Power Station.

\----------

We dropped Michael and Myrthe off at his squat, then Ralf drove back to my dormitory and parked. I tried to beg off, saying that I needed to study, but he claimed he was too tired for the 40 minutes drive back to Krefeld, and pointed out that it was unfair to waste a rare evening that Myrthe was away, leaving me with the room to myself. And so Ralf stayed over, and was most pleased with himself when he rang the VW repair shop in Düsseldorf the next morning and found that it was open. On Monday night after the demonstration, Myrthe returned, so I sent him packing, but he was back the next evening, knocking on my window and swinging himself up into my bedroom and into my bed. If the window wasn't open, he would waylay me at the computer lab (where I told him I would actually murder him if he even mentioned our relationship in the Programming class, let alone tried to act on it). But in the lab, he would somehow talk me into lashing my cycle to the rack on the back of his Beetle so he could 'give me a ride home' which invariably ended with him inviting himself over for a cup of coffee, and ending up in my bed again.

Even if Myrthe was there, he figured out how to open the window from outside, and let himself in, turning up in the middle of the night and sliding between the sheets next to me. Although he wouldn't actually try to fuck me when Myrthe was there, I started to dread the hour of the morning that she padded off down the hall to take a shower, as Ralf would barely wait for the click of the door closing before trying to push off my knickers and slip inside me.

By the fifth night in a row that he either stayed over, or at least tried to, I had Myrthe read him the riot act. I had coached her on what to say, even though she hadn't wanted to confront him. And to my vast irritation, he seemed willing to listen to her in a way that he paid no attention whatsoever to my protests.

>>Look, it's not fair to Myrthe<< I had said, and he had completely ignored me.

>>Look, it's not fair to Michael, after all, we don't crash here every night - when it would be easier for Michael to get to school from here - because you're always here<< Myrthe had said, and Ralf actually furrowed his brow, and considered it. No doubt, because he was still on his best behaviour, trying to get Michael to commit to his band!

The next day, he came knocking at my window, but he didn't climb up in, he just stood down on the pavement, waving a set of keys up at me. >>Pack your bag and come with me<< he urged.

>>I'm studying<< I told him, holding up the copy of Ernst Gombrich's _Art And Illusion_ that Emil had told us all to read.

>>Bring it with you<< he insisted.

>>Where are we going?<<

>>My new digs<< he shrugged. >>I mean, the official housewarming isn't until tomorrow, after the gig, but I figured you and I could have a private housewarming tonight, if you know what I mean.<<

>>Is it far? Where are you living?<< I looked up and down the street for the Beetle.

Ralf grinned. >>Berger Allee. Ten minutes' walk. See, I've moved into Emil's spare room, only 200 DM a month.<<

For a minute, I stared at him, horrified at the idea that my supposed boyfriend was living with the tutor for one of my courses, but eventually curiosity won out. The way that the girls had talked about >>Number 9, Berger Alleeeeee<< as if it were some guilded palace of sin had piqued my interest, so I tossed a couple of textbooks and a change of clothes into a rucksack and threw it down to him, before climbing out myself, pulling the window closed behind me.

>>So, what's the gig?<< I asked, allowing him to hold my hand as we walked over, as he was still carrying my rucksack. I had not seen hide nor hair of Florian since leaving the campsite, and I was half fearful, half excited at the thought of seeing him again.

>>Oh, it's a thing that Beuys recommended us for. There is a new show at the Kunsthalle. Some associates of his, I believe. Laser artists.<< He laughed slightly, then made a slightly sarcastic face as if to say, yes, OK, this is the new thing now, laser art. >>And they wanted some musicians to come and 'interact' with the laser sculptures by standing in between them performing improvisational music inspired by them. Should be fun, though, as it'll be Michael's first time performing in public with us.<< Despite the too-cool-to-be-impressed attitude of his words, he was smiling like a little boy in a state of pure excitement at the idea.

We walked a few blocks towards the Rhine, then turned off down a shady street, just in the shadow of the glittering lights of the Mannesmann Hochhaus. Everywhere we went, Florian, or at least his family, seemed to follow us. >>Am I invited, or is it a private show?<< I asked.

>>As the girlfriend of the lead instrumentalist, it is not just your right, but your duty to attend<< Ralf informed me, squeezing my hand as he lead me up his street. >>You must, however, dress appropriately to your station, and I think the wearing of cosmetics would be in order.<<

I burst out laughing, thinking he was having a little joke with me, but when he turned to me, his face was completely serious. >>And what would you have me wear, then<< I said, trying to keep my tone light, though inside, I was slightly outraged.

>>The blue dress you wore at the Creamcheese Club, that was the sort of thing I had in mind - though not that specific dress, as Beuys will already have seen you in it.<< he said solemnly, dropping my hand as he climbed the steps to a large, rather grand apartment block that had clearly seen better days. As he pushed the door open, he called out into the deep gloom. >>Hallo? Emil! Are you at home...?<< There was no reply, so he shrugged and pushed the door open. 

A small vestibule lead into a giant hall, lit by a cracked light fitting high above. There was a distinct tang of oil paint, but the overwhelming scent was of dust, of dust and mildew and rot. I shivered and clasped my boiled-wool coat closer around me, as Ralf lead me through, down a passage to a room at the back.

>>So it needs a little work<< said Ralf, pushing open an enormous door. >>But welcome to my humble abode.<<

I didn't even see the room, though that, too, was very grand, with high ceilings and the remains of 19th Century plasterwork. I just walked straight through towards the massive windows at the back, staring out at the uninterrupted view, straight down a steep bank to the shores of the Rhine. >>Oh my god<< I said, dumbfounded. >>All of this, you get for only 200 DM?<<

Ralf grinned proudly, flopping back onto the mattress that was the only furniture in the room. >>It is owned by Mannesmann. Florian's father knows the Board of Directors.<< Of course he did; I thought of the giant tower hanging somewhere above our heads, though I could not see it from the widow, it was too close. >>Florian was going to live here at one point, use the basement as our workshop, make recordings here. But the neighbours complained about noise late at night. So Florian rented the workshop on Mintropstrasse, where we can make as much of a racket as we like, all night long, and Emil took over the lease here.<<

>>And Emil is content to live in that Flea Palace in the front, and let you have this grand view of the river?<< I asked, loathe to leave my place at the window, watching the lights of ships passing along the river in the dark.

>>Emil gets seasick; hates even the sight of boats. Now come to bed; are you going to give me a fuck or not?<< I turned and obediently trotted back towards him, though I checked the state of the mattress first. The sheets, it seemed, were clean enough, but I had no idea of the provenance of the mattress. >>Don't worry, it's new it was delivered this morning<< Ralf assured me as he started to undress me.

I lay back and looked out the window as he made love to me, wondering if sex with Ralf was something I was ever going to get used to. I viewed it as a duty, rather like the wearing of cosmetics and attractive vintage clothes, rather than something to be looked forward to. He had definitely improved, since that first terrible night at the skiing chalet, and he did his best to provide for my pleasure, and even managed to obtain an orgasm for me when he cared to. But the magic, the urgency and need that I had felt, in that tent in the forest, I had never experienced that kind of desire again.

Initially, I had just thought it was the discomfort of my single bed, back in the dormitory, or the rush and fear of the morning quickies, praying that Myrthe did not walk back in before he was done. But lying in that big bed in the Berger Allee, with all the time and all the space in the world, I realised that it was actually me. I did not love Ralf Hütter, and having sex with someone I did not love was about as inherently interesting as Florian's view of kissing.

If Ralf noticed, he said nothing. But to be honest, I don't think he noticed. Ralf was happy, deliriously so, and why shouldn't he be? An attractive girlfriend, a cool band whose debut record was coming out the next month, a job playing television appearances in the New Year, and now an amazing bachelor pad, just on the edge of Düsseldorf's cool and trendy Altstadt.

I left him sleeping in the morning, wrapped his shirt around my shoulders, and went out into the chill of the apartment, looking for the bathroom, and then the kitchen to make coffee. The house was a bit of a maze, but I succeeded eventually at finding both. But as I was putting the percolator on to make coffee, I heard footsteps clattering across the old-fashioned parquet floors.

>>Ralf? Raaalfie? I know you're here because you forgot to put the latch on the door last night - I know you're used to sleepy old Krefeld, but here in Altstadt...<< Emil's voice trailed off as he walked into the kitchen and saw me, perched on a stool, trying very hard to hide the fact that I was wearing no knickers beneath Ralf's button-down shirt. >>Jan?<< he asked.

>>Hello, Professor Schult. I have been studying, I promise. I even brought the Gombrich book with me last night, but would you like some coffee?<< I chattered away, trying to pretend this wasn't as awkward as it looked. He wasn't a Professor, only a Tutor, but I desperately wanted to try to re-establish some kind of formal standing between us.

>>Ralf!<< bellowed Emil at the top of his lungs, and they really were quite spectacular lungs, used to trying to gain the attention of a dozen 20 year old girls in class. >>Rrrrrrraaaaalf!<< After a few minutes, Ralf appeared in the door to the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, wearing nothing but a pair of white Y-fronts. Emil practically seized him by the scruff of his neck, and pointed at me. >>She can't live here<< he insisted.

>>She's not going to live here.<< Ralf explained testily. >>She lives at the Kunstakademie Dormitory. I just brought her here for a fuck.<<

>>You can't fuck her here!<< roared Emil.

>>Why not?<< shrugged Ralf. I stared at Emil, slightly taken aback. Come on, he had to have seen us arrive together at the Forest-Party, and everyone had seen us leave together. Where did he think I slept?

>>She's one of my students<< Emil shouted, running his fingers through his thick, curly hair as he paced back and forth across the kitchen. >>Not just a student at the Kunstakademie, but one of my _actual_ students, in the class I tutor. I cannot have my students parading naked about the house... <<

>>I'm not naked<< I pointed out. >>I'm wearing Ralf's shirt.<< I had standards, even when I was being sexually serviced by a strange rock'n'roll organist in a dirty artists' squat in the Altstadt.

>>I do not want to picture the mental image of you naked - or wearing Ralfie's shirt and not much more - when you are sitting in the front row of my class, with me trying to instil the principles of design and the grammar of ornament into your pretty little head.<< He blsutered. >>Not to mention, she's only 18, Ralfie.<<

Ralf swallowed nervously, and looked at me very carefully. >>What? I thought you were at least 20.<< His face blanched for a moment, but then he shrugged. >>But who cares, what's the age of consent anyway? 14?<<

>>Only if you're under 21, Ralf. You're 24<< Emil pointed out.

As Ralf and I stared at one another, Emil blustered about the kitchen table. >>Put some clothes on, Jan, and go home. Go back to your dormitory. I want you back at the school, even if I have to drive you there myself.<<

>>I can walk<< I told him coldly, resolving to stop speaking to him so informally in class, then turned on my heel and went straight back to Ralf's room to dress. Inside, I was furious, though I tried to calm myself. Really, it was a blessing in disguise. Emil's disapproval provided the perfect excuse to stop sleeping with Ralf - or at least stop coming round the Berger Allee. But that gave me pause. To be honest, the expansive space of the Berger Allee apartment, as grimy and disused as it appeared, had given me my first taste of proper adult freedom since arriving in Düsseldorf. Away from the guards and other girls that dictated the constraints of the International Dormitory, I had started to make plans for those grand rooms - paint the walls, get in some appropriately decadent curtains, a few bits of second hand furniture, and my god, we could have thrown not just a student party, but a proper, intellectual Salon. And if Emil disapproved of me, all of that disappeared.

Ralf reappeared, scratching himself through his Y-fronts. I looked at him carefully, and thought that he, too, much like 9 Berger Allee, could really do with a wash, a haircut and a bit of a tidy-up. >>I'll walk you back<< he offered.

>>No<< I said, in the firm voice that it was necessary to take to get Ralf to listen to me. >>I really do have to study...<< Since I knew he would pay no attention to my needs at all, I added >>...and you have to prepare for your gig!<<

>>Chan<< said Ralf softly, coming over to kiss my exposed neck. >>Emil will come round. He always does. And at the end of term... who knows. Your class with him will be finished, and you can come and live with me.<<

My head was all in turmoil as I walked home. Live with Ralf? I had absolutely no desire to live with Ralf. But that apartment! I had to admit I was tempted. And the end of term... It was six weeks away, as Silke had been trying to impress upon me, to get all of her clothing designs ready for the end of term show. Even the International Dormitory closed over Christmas, and I had to make up my mind whether to find lodgings in Germany, or face the gauntlet between trying to decide between Christmas with the DeLays in Manchester, or the Van de Merwes in the Orange Free State. Either option seemed grim, to be honest, and the Berger Allee, in all its filth, seemed a viable option by alternative.

I showed my ID to the guard and trudged down the hall to my room, banging open the door, only to be greeted by a symphony of signs and panting and heavy breathing, followed by a shriek and a rapid attempt to throw a blanket over a naked arse that was becoming entirely too familiar to me.

\--Don't worry, I'll just get my things and go and take a shower. Twenty minutes, ja?-- I said, trying to avert my eyes as I picked my things out from under the clutter of clothes and guitar strings and bits of electronics that Michael seemed to have left all over the floor.

I dawdled in the shower, took closer to half an hour, and returned to our room to find Michael sitting on the bed, wearing a kimono and smoking a cigarette as he fiddled with his guitar, playing a song that was already becoming very familiar to me from Power Station gigs. >>I'm sorry<< I told him.

>>No worries.<< Michael just grinned at me, playing the Ruckzuck chords over and over and over again, trying to work out the fingering.

>>Why are you not at the squat?<< I asked, hoping I didn't sound too rude.

Michael's face darkened. >>We have a little problem with one of the new housemates. He is, as you say... light-fingered. With the other hippies in the commune, who own nothing but the clothes on their backs, this is not too much of a problem. But with me... well, a rather expensive piece of guitar technology went missing while we were camping. Even with the money I will make at the Power Station appearances, I cannot afford the loss. So I needed to put my gear somewhere safer... and quickly.<< He shrugged, as he gestured towards the electronics on the floor. >>I am so sorry, I would have taken it to Mintropstrasse, but Florian is not answering his phone, and Ralf... well, I did not like to bother you and Ralf.<<

I moved a large amplifier out of the way so I could get to my desk. Really, the room was crowded enough already with my boxes of punchcards and Jacquard cards and bits of looms and dog-ends of fabric. >>This thief, why do you not throw him out?<< I suggested sensibly.

>>It is a _commune_ << said Michael. >>You cannot just throw people out, under anarchist principles. Meetings must be called, agreements made, consensus reached. And unfortunately, most of the others in the commune share the same view of Private Property already being theft, as our light-fingered friend.<<

>>I see<< I said. There was a part of me that wanted to point out exactly how this contradicted an argument he had recently had with Herr Professor Schneider-Esleben, but realised just in time that that might be construed as tactless. Followed quickly by the realisation that communal living in the Berger Allee might, similarly, be losing its appeal, as I already knew who, exactly, in Power Station, had the light fingers with regards to intellectual property, let alone physical property.

>>Don't worry, this clobber won't be here very long<< Michael assured me. >>Myrthe and I have been looking about, we have found a very nice loft space in the Altstadt, that a friend is leaving...<<

>>Michael!<< hissed Myrthe, suddenly rising from her desk and turning around to look at me, her face guilty.

>>What? We have agreed to move in, when we break for Christmas.<< Michael protested.

>>Michael, these things must be handled diplomatically<< Myrthe hissed, with an expression on her face that made my heart stop.

\--You're leaving-- I said, feeling suddenly very forlorn.

\--Jan, I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you in a nicer way, maybe over dinner and a bottle of wine. We have signed an agreement to move in the week that term finishes.--

\--But what about me?-- I wailed. --I don't want another housemate, a stranger in my dorm room. I _like_ living with you! We get along, and I don't get along with many...--

\--We thought you would be moving in with Ralf. He told Michael it was almost a done deal.--

I gaped at her, wondering what else Ralf had told Michael that he hadn't bothered telling me. --I can't. Emil does not want a teenage girl - not to mention one of his design students - living in the flat.-- Using Emil seemed a much easier excuse than the more complicated truth: that I just did not want to live with Ralf. The feeling had grown even stronger, since discovering he was talking about my life with Michael, and it would not leave me alone.

At first Myrthe frowned, looking embarrassed, then concerned, then her face started to look slightly relieved as she smiled. >>Michael<< she said, switching to German again so her boyfriend could understand. >>There are three rooms in the loft in Altstadt, right?<<

>>Yes<< agreed Michael from behind his wall of hair. >>We were going to live in one, you were going to have the second, as a studio for designing and making dresses, and I would have the third, for making music.<<

>>But you are in Power Station now<< pointed out Myrthe. >>You will keep your gear in Mintropstrasse. Jan will live in the third room.<<

>>What?<< protested Michael, as he realised that he was no longer going to get a say in this. >>But I don't have a key, I can't get into Mintropstrasse; if I did, none of this gear would be here.<<

>>Think about it, dummy-head<< said Myrthe, walking over to me and taking my hands. >>Three people paying the rent is much, much cheaper than two. It will be cheaper even than staying in the dormitory, Jan. We will live like kings! Oh, say yes, Jan, please say yes?<<

I looked back and forth between them. At first Michael looked slightly cross, but then he shrugged and smiled at me. >>Ah, you are right, my darling. The more the merrier.<<

I thought about the money thing, first of all - I had somewhat overestimated the exchange rate between Sterling and DM, and completely underestimated the cost of second hand gowns suitable for the girlfriend of the lead instrumentalist of a popular art-rock band. A cheaper place to live would make my fast-diminishing student grant stretch a little further. Then I thought about my plans for the upcoming break. Those awkward Christmas dinners with my grandmother in Manchester shimmered in my memory, then evaporated, followed by the entire grubby, boorish Van de Merwe clan. Christmas in Düsseldorf, snow in the old town, the extravagant decorative lights all up and down the Kö, shopping for presents all wrapped up to our chins in scarves... I grinned broadly. >>I'd love to.<<

Myrthe let out a small cry and shook my hands, dancing me round in a small circle, as Michael laughed and sped up the chords to Ruckzuck until we spun around, giddy, and collapsed in a heap of girlish giggles on my bed.

As we were still laughing and hugging one another, there was a knock on the door. >>If there are any Kraft-werkers in the Girls' dormitory, could you please make yourselves decent!<< called out Silke's voice.

>>We have no naked Kraft-werkers today<< I called back, and she stuck her head in.

>>There's one<< teased Silke, pointing at Michael. >>You do know that you two are picking up quite a reputation in the Design department. They think you are Communists, since you sleep with the Werkers.<<

>>As if you haven't bedded Emil<< snorted Myrthe, and suddenly I looked up at Silke, remembering something. Silke, after all, was one of Emil's young students.

>>That _hypocrite_! << I cried, and Silke and Myrthe both looked at me, alarmed, but I fell silent quickly, smiling apologetically though I was fuming inside.

>>Men are all hypocrites<< snorted Silke, but then she poked me. >>Jan, I need you. Only for about an hour or so, if your Werkers can spare you. The dresses, you see, are at a critical stage. There is less than a month until the final show, and I need you for a fitting.<<

>>Can't you use Marlene?<< I sighed, gesturing towards the dummy, who was currently decked out in Myrthe's end-of-year project.

>>No, no, no<< sputtered Myrthe. >>I have not finished pinning!<<

>>Alright, I'll come on one condition<< I bargained. >>I need to borrow one of the gowns to wear to an art opening tonight.<<

>>No<< protested Silke. >>You will spoil the surprise if you go wearing them to every student show in Düsseldorf. Wait until the end of term show.<<

I thought quickly, then remembered what Ralf had said. >>Beuys will be there<< I let slip.

>>Really?<< asked Silke, her interest piqued. I could see her mind working, behind her eyes, thinking of how important was this man who headed half the art school. >>Alright<< she finally conceded. >>But you must tell him it was one of the Couture students who designed the dress. I will be sure to get a good mark, then.<<

I followed Silke upstairs, and stood quietly as she produced the clothes, one after another. I didn't know what she was fussing about, as most of them were complete, or so nearly there that they required only minor adjustments. And Silke's clothes truly were breathtakingly beautiful, a mixture of space-age fabrics - some of which, admittedly, I had had a hand in creating - and elegant 1930s design. But quite my favourite was a ballgown, inspired by a dress she had seen in a clip from a 1930s filmstar. And I wasn't just saying that because it was one of the fabrics I had designed, in a shimmering silver and black moire pattern I had computed using an algorithm derived from the burned Jacquard cards, which looked like beautiful old fashioned lace disrupted by psychedelic streaks of chaos. There was a high, almost turtleneck collar, from which ruched fabric fell in a cascade down my front, leaving my entire back bare, before joining with a long, trailing skirt below. The problem was, the long trailing skirt was so heavy that it kept pulling the fabric down off my hips, exposing the upper part of my bum most alarmingly.

But Silke laughed. >>Maybe it is supposed to be like that. Because your cleavage at the front is all covered up, perhaps it would be humorous to have cleavage at the back instead.<<

>>Please, just fix it<< I demanded, hiking it up yet again. I loved the dress, as it suited my cropped hair, and against the rich fabric, the extreme pallor of my skin looked dramatic, instead of just undernourished. I wanted more than anything, to wear it that night. >>What we need is an architect - there's got to be a way to hold up the bum of this dress the way they hold up the suspension bridges over the Rhine.<<

Silke took the dress off me, and we examined it on the hanger. >>It's the train<< she said >>your fabric is so heavy!<<

But I looked about and found a spool of silver wire she had used for affixing sequins onto the belt of one of the suits. >>This is the sort of thing you need<< I said, gesturing at the expanse between the waist and the sides. >>Criss-cross, in a wire lattice here, like the support cables of a bridge.<<

Silke's eyes lit up as she got the idea. >>Put it back on, I'll have to sew you into it.<<

>>If you prick me with your needles...<< I warned.

>>If you insult my sewing, I will definitely prick you!<< she teased, but I held still as she sewed the wires into place, then turned around to admire the handiwork as the silver threads glittered across my back. >>You look like the Theodore-Heuss-Brücke<< she teased.

>>Good<< I said. >>I'm glad.<<


	18. Claudia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Power Station play at an art opening, Jan is shocked to meet the woman in Florian's life.

It was not very far at all from our dormitory to the Kunsthalle for the Power Station gig, but Silke insisted we take a cab over, as she did not trust me to walk in the dress without ripping it. I had wanted to wear my boiled wool coat, as it was warm, but she refused to allow me, and fished a large fake fur like a bear rug out of her closet. She was also very dressed up, in a vintage gown from the 1930s, and looked spectacular, though really, I thought she just wanted to rub Emil's nose in what he was missing. It was dark already as the cab pulled up outside the large, modern building, but the party itself had not started yet. The musicians were still setting up in a large open area, surrounded by strange looking objects that might have been sculptures or equipment, while Emil and the other artists were still checking to make sure that everything was working and displayed to their best advantage. Michael was sitting on top of an amplifier, quietly tuning up, as Ralf fiddled with the knobs on his Farfisa, but neither Klaus nor Florian were anywhere in sight.

I was disappointed, to be honest, as I'd wanted to make a grand entrance to stunning effect, but instead I slunk through the room and hung my fake fur in an office that had been provided for the musicians to stow cases and coats and things. Ralf looked me up and down with the same slightly critical expression that he had been evaluating the laser-sculptures, and frowned. Perhaps he was disappointed with the lack of cleavage, as he certainly seemed more impressed with Silke's low-cut gown. But then he smiled when he saw the silver wiring across my back.

>>Is this mercury delay line memory?<< he teased.

<No<< I said. >>It is a suspension bridge - which I thought you, of all people, as an architecture student, would recognise.<<

But he was still looking at me critically. >>You are too pale<< he said disapprovingly, as if his own belly were not the colour of a maggot. >>You should spend more time in the sun, get a bit more of a tan, like Silke has.<<

Silke, I wanted to point out, had used bronzer on her face and décolleté before she left, while I had made a massive effort to duplicate the highly contrasted silent filmstar make-up that he had admired at the Creamcheese gig. Instead I said nothing, turning away to look out the window to the rain-streaked streets of the Altstadt. Outside, a group of fashionably dressed young people were making their way up the stairs towards the gallery.

>>Oh look<< cried Emil, sticking his head out into the mist, as he, too, was trying to look anywhere but at Silke's luxuriant décolleté or my glittering back. >>Here's Flori and Klaus at last.<<

The young people walked up into the gallery, shaking droplets of rain off their coats, and when I saw them, my heart stopped. Because Florian - my Florian, resplendent in a lovely warm camel-haired coat with fur trim at the collar - was walking arm in arm with a beautiful young woman.

I wanted to die. I wanted to sink through the floor of the gallery and collapse in a pile of bones and skin in the cellar. She was beautiful, absolutely exquisite, with a striking face, high cheekbones and a delicately aquiline nose, all framed by mountains of dark, auburn-dyed hair tied up with a scarf, and topped off by thick, horn-rimmed glasses that seemed to add to her beauty rather than detracting from it, making her look arty and intellectual as well as beautiful and fashionable. And it was obvious, from the way that she had taken Florian's coat and was picking bits of stray lint off his floral shirt, that they had the easy intimacy of long acquaintance. Dragging my eyes away from them both, I nodded my hello to Klaus, who was standing in the door holding a snare drum and a hi-hat stand. Behind him, carrying a cymbal bag and stool was another attractively dressed woman... Anni, from our design class? Quickly, I smiled at her and said hello, though I had not really spoken to her much since the pool party at the Schneider-Esleben house. But that seemed so long ago, now.

I tried to look anywhere but at the beautiful woman who was holding Flori's coat as he dug in its voluminous pockets for his flute case. When he had taken what he needed, she folded up the coat, together with her own, then stood on her tip-toes to kiss him, sloppily, on the cheek. I wanted to burn up in flames, even as Flori made a face and pretended to wipe lipstick from his skin. She laughed and put the coats in the back room, but as she came back into the gallery, Flori caught her and deposited a similarly wet and messy kiss on her heavily made-up cheek. The girl shrieked, and hit him roughly, before trying to fix her mascara with the edge of her thumb, but Flori pulled her close and deposited a more affectionate kiss on the top of her hair. It was intolerable; it could not be borne. I wanted to hit this girl, to hit Flori, to push both of them off the Theodore-Heuss-Brücke into the icy waters of the Rhine, feeling a blush starting on my cheeks and spreading down across my neck and shoulders.

But Ralf let out a little cry of delight when he saw her, and stood up from his organ, walking across to embrace her and kiss her on both cheeks. >>Claudia! Look at you, all grown up. What are you doing back at home? It's not Christmas yet.<<

>>I am home to study for the exam in two weeks' time - as you should be, Hütter. If I pass, I go into the accelerated preparation course next term at Aachen, and graduate this coming summer. Won't it be funny if I, who am three years younger than you, graduate from Architecture School before you do?<< Her tone with him was so easy, so insolent that I had to wonder - was this the girlfriend from high school that had known them all for years before I had?

>>I did apply to take the test<< Ralf said carefully, before turning back to me. >>But now I am thinking that I might stay in Düsseldorf, instead of transferring to Aachen.<< Taking my hand, he pulled me forward, ignoring my reluctance to be introduced to this strange woman who seemed to have captivated Flori's heart so completely he could not even look at me. >>Claudia, this is my Liebling Chan. Chan, this is Florian's most little sister, Claudia.<<

>>Not _most_ little, thank you, Hütter << she teased, stepping forward to take my hands. >>There is another, even littler sister, still in high school.<< As she turned to smile at me, I felt all the colour draining out of my face. Sister? Of course. It seemed obvious now, those same prominent Teutonic cheekbones, those same piercing ice-blue eyes, though Claudia's nose was more delicate, and her lips more full, though perhaps that was artfully applied make-up. >>So you are Jan DeLay<< she said, looking me up and down with an expression of genuine pleasure. >>I have heard _so much_ about you, it is a delight to finally meet you. You are even more beautiful than Flori described... and your dress! How spectacular! Let me see... oh, I love the suspension-matrix at the back, it reminds me of the Brooklyn Bridge. << To show that she had been to New York, of course.

>>It was inspired by the Rhine-Bridge<< I confessed quietly.

>>Of course it was!<< cried Claudia, swinging me around so she could get a full look at me. >>What fun! I love it, where can I get one?<<

>>You will have to ask Silke, who made it<< I gestured towards my friend, wishing that this strange woman would let go her grip on my hands so I could run and hide.

>>You made this?<< gasped Claudia, finally moving on to embrace Silke in greeting. >>It is absolutely stunning. Flori, you always find such talented friends. Silke, I want you to design my wedding-dress in this suspension-bridge style. Say you will; only you will do.<<

Relieved to be out of the intensity of her gaze, I cast a glance up at Flori, but he would not meet my eyes, squirming slightly as he bent to soundcheck his flute against the microphone that Ralf had set up for him. And then it struck me - why on earth had Florian been telling his sister so much about me? And why, of all things, had Florian seen fit to tell her that I was beautiful? It seemed very uncharacteristic. Florian did not describe people as beautiful. Clever, interesting, talented, amusing, these were the kinds of things that Flori enthused, about Ralf or Emil or Silke. But beautiful? Why had Florian told his sister I was beautiful?

But at that moment, the crowd that had been gathering in the gallery seemed to hold its collective breath, and grew very silent, as a new man arrived. Emil rushed over to take the newcomer's coat, and as he disrobed, I saw a familiar leather vest. Our host, Beuys. The hush gathered as he walked about, accepting a glass of wine before starting to contemplate the artwork. Someone turned the lights in the hall down, so that the faint outlines of the laser-sculptures glowed more visibly in the half-dark. 

Beuys and his associates stumbled around in the gloom, taking in the phantom geometrical shapes projected in shimmering, unearthly red light in the air. >>I was told there would be music<< he observed, gesturing towards a large stack of electronic bits and bobs by Michael's chair, that no one was really sure whether it was a laser-sculpture or part of Michael's set-up.

Michael just stared, frozen with fear, and Klaus hid behind his hair, fussing with the snares on his drum, while even Ralf looked slightly cowed. But only Florian seemed unbothered by our esteemed host, and raised the flute to his lips, coaxing a breathy, Turkish-inspired melody to rise through the echo chamber.

Beuys smiled. >>Exquisite<< he mused quietly, though whether he was talking about Florian's flute, or the flickering rose of red light in front of him, no one could seem to tell. But the spell was broken, and conversation resumed amidst the crowd, which seemed to be growing in number by the minute, hulks of faint bodies gathering in the gloom. Ralf had caught Flori's melody, and was playing a gentle bassline underneath on the Farfisa, as Michael started to finger-pick around it, and Klaus tapped out a jazzy swing-beat on his hi-hat. The four musicians sat in a loose circle, all facing one another, as viewers at the art gallery wandered in between, paying them as little mind as if they were part of the furnishings. The space was beautiful, the art, well, was exciting and technological, and the music... I smiled, thinking how excited I had been to come to Düsseldorf. This was exactly the sort of event I had always wanted to be part of.

And yet, if that were the case, why did I feel so weird? I moved over to Ralf's side like the dutiful girlfriend, and put my hand on his shoulder, to ask if he wanted a drink, but he ignored me completely, utterly lost in his music. Turning aside, I smiled graciously at Beuys, who smiled back and inclined his head in greeting. If I had been Silke, if I had been one of the other girls on my course, I would have taken advantage of this opening, and pressed him into conversation, used the opportunity to garner favours, a better grade, a personal tuition, a reference. But I could think of not a thing to say to the great man, so I nodded back, I hoped graciously, and slid on, eventually slipping out of the room to the back office to perch amidst the pile of coats. In the back office, there were lights again, unlike the gallery, so I felt more like I could breathe, wondering how I was ever going to survive having to go to concerts and gigs as the girlfriend of the lead instrumentalist of a popular musical group.

After a few minutes, someone coughed quietly, and I realised I was not alone. I looked up, and saw Claudia standing in the door, holding two glasses of wine. >>I wanted to make sure you got some wine before the students drank it all<< she said, extending one like an invitation. >>Do you mind if I join you?<<

>>Not at all<< I said, moving over to make room to her. >>It was just getting a bit crowded out there, for me.<<

>>I know what you mean. My mother is very fond of parties... as am I! But I do forget that some people can find them a bit overwhelming. Flori is just the same as you. Just so much socialising he likes... and then no more.<< She paused, as both of us sipped our wine. >>Look, I don't mean to be forward, Jan, but I just have to ask. The way you looked at me when we were introduced... If I was not mistaken, you looked like you wanted to _kill_ me. Have I offended you in some way? Done something to upset you? <<

I flushed bright red, raising the glass to my lips to cover my embarrassment. >>Oh no, not at all. A case of mistaken identity<< I managed to sputter, and took another sip of wine. What on earth was I supposed to say?

>>I am glad to hear it. I've known Ralf for some time, so I'd like if you and I were friends.<<

Something prickled on the back of my neck. Was there something I had been told that I might have forgotten? This Düsseldorf scene was so incestuous that I had no idea if there might have been an intrigue between Ralf and Flori's sister, or not. The subtle flirtation between Klaus and Anni, and the lines of attitude flowing between Emil and Silke made me very aware how we were all bound together by filaments of sexual intrigue. >>OK<< I said warily.

>>You're very quiet. Flori didn't say you were quiet. He said you were a most interesting conversationalist, in his letters.<<

Letters? Again, there was the question. Why on earth had Flori been talking about me in letters, to his sister, of all people? I took another sip of wine to steady my nerves, while my mind flailed helplessly. >>I am afraid it is Flori who is the interesting conversationalist. He is very special, so it is easy to talk to him.<< I confessed.

>>Flori is _special_ alright << laughed Claudia, in that mocking tone I often heard brothers and sisters take with one another, but then she relented. >>No, Flori really is special. He is a funny man, that he is so clever with words, and yet so hopeless as to _meaning_. Always remember that he means well, even when he is a bit slow and clumsy socially. His heart is good. <<

When I said nothing, she turned and fixed me with a penetrating gaze, that ice-blue stare that seemed to pierce right into one's soul, that all of the Schneider-Eslebens seems to share. At that moment, I wanted to spill all of it. I wanted, desperately, to tell her - well, to tell anyone really - the truth. _I'm in love with your brother. I desire your brother with the heat of a thousand suns. I dream about your brother. In fact, the only way I can come with my wretched boyfriend is to close my eyes, and think about your brother's bushy head pressed tight against my breasts._ But I realised, before I opened my mouth, that any single piece of information that I told Florian's sister... those Schneider-Eslebens were all so closely-entwined that it would be transmitted instantly down the wires to Florian. So I closed my mouth and said nothing.

>>I know Flori has a good heart<< I said, and rose, to leave. >>Flori has the gentlest heart of any man I have ever known.<<

But Claudia reached out and caught me by the wrist. >>Jan, are you really in love with Ralf?<< It was a question so over-familiar as to be rude, yet it seemed somehow completely natural for her to ask it.

I stared at her resentfully, biting my lip, because I knew she could see it in my face: I did not love Ralf at all. >>Claudia, I have to go<< I said briskly, pulling my hand back from her.

>>Jan, you can talk to me, you know. Flori trusts me, and so can you<< she urged, those icy blue eyes almost too painful to bear.

>>I don't even know you<< I said, retreating into myself like a tortoise pulling back into its shell, then held my head up high, and went back to the other room.

I tried to behave like the perfect girlfriend, fluttering about Ralf, taking care of his needs. I refilled his wineglass; I adjusted his music stand so that he could turn the sheets more easily; I shooed away two students who were standing a little too close to his power supply. And I stood, with my shoulders thrown back and my head erect, trying to look like the beautiful ornament I knew he wanted me to be. 

And the music they were playing was beautiful. Even though I knew that Power Station had only had two rehearsals with Michael, the four of them gelled so perfectly it was as if they had been playing together for years. Michael watched Klaus like a hawk, following or anticipating his every movement, inclining his head and hands so that his downstrokes coincided with every cymbal hit, like two halves of an interlocking machine. And over the top of this tightly-constructed grid, Ralf and Florian were carrying on a kind of a music conversation, just like Florian had played with the brook. A squiggle of sound like a question from Flori's flute, followed by a grumble of reply from Ralf's organ, over and over again, changing subtly, until I realised they were acting out a funny sort of parody of the artistic conversations going on all around them.

Is the laser-sculpture any good?  
_Oh no it's terrible._  
But the negative space!   
_The use of lasers is so innovative._  
But the images are so simple, so played out.  
_Everything has been done before._  
Nothing new under the sun.  
_Where is the refreshment table?_  
Quick before the students drink all the wine   
_And eat all the cheese._

I wanted to laugh, but instead, I put my hand on Ralf's shoulders again, feeling his muscles to see if he was still tense, or if he had relaxed slightly. This time, he did not shrug me off, he glanced up at me and smiled, then reached out to change the tone on his keyboard. The gig was going well, so he was happy. And then I made the mistake of looking across at Florian. Florian was staring at me, breathing in and out through his flute, in time with the music, his lips protruding over the metal mouthpiece as if he was getting ready to kiss someone. I could not read the expression on his face. He looked proud, like a hawk, and yet he looked oddly vulnerable, as if he were afraid of something, his lips pursed but his eyes wide open, studying me carefully.

I could not even smile at him. I stared for a minute longer, and then I forced my eyes down, looking at Ralf's long, pasty-white fingers as they moved across the Farfisa's keys. Later tonight, those fingers would be on me, would probably even be inside me. Why didn't that thought excite me? Why indeed, when across the room, I could see the flautist's fingers flying up and down the scales like a butterfly's wings.

After the art gallery concert, there was another party back at the Berger Allee. This was less brightly lit, and far more crowded, as every art student in the city seemed to have converged on the dirty rooms. Ralf had closed and locked his bedroom, as all of the band's equipment was heaped in there, but the hall, the kitchen, the dark room where Emil slept, all of them were crowded with people, many of them completely unfamiliar. I spotted Klaus and Anni canoodling in a corner, and smiled for them, but I did not want to disturb them. Emil, for some reason, was paying attention to Silke again, though Silke, in her magnificent gown, was pretending to ignore him as she chatted away with Freda, who wanted to know whether Wolfgang's legendary organ lived up the hype. I shook my head at their antics, and walked through, looking for my other friends.

I could hear another stereo, playing different music, at the back of the house. For a moment, I stood, with my ear cocked, and then I recognised it. The Stooges' Fun House. That was definitely Ralf, as he loved that record, played it over and over, until I had come to associate that strange, twisting distorted guitar and discordant saxophone with that bedroom that overlooked the Rhine. At the back of the house, there was another room, though this one looked out onto an alley between the buildings, instead of out over the Rhine, and here, I found that Ralf and Florian and Claudia had all gathered on a dusty sofa, passing a joint back and forth between them. 

They didn't hear me enter, as the music obscured my footsteps, and really I should have coughed, said hello, drawn attention to myself in some way, but there was something intriguing about watching without being observed. Or maybe I just didn't want to intrude; felt that the three of them formed a long-familiar unit to which I did not entirely belong. Or maybe, to be completely honest, it was a rare chance to look at Florian without him knowing, watching how natural and affectionate he was towards his sister, in a way he rarely relaxed around other people.

>>This was supposed to be my room<< said Florian dreamily, looking up into the cobwebs on the ceiling as he leaned his head back against his sister's shoulder.

>>So why don't you live here<< insisted Claudia, smoothing a tendril of hair out of his face. >>You and Dad are obviously driving one another crazy, fighting all the time. You would be happier if you gave one another some space.<<

>>I am afraid of the spiders<< confessed Florian, smiling at her with such a tender expression that my heart felt like it was going to melt.

>>So get a maid, and clean it up!<< scoffed Claudia, ruffling his hair and sending the tendril right back into his eyes again.

>>The spiders are so huge! What if the spiders eat the maid?<< said Florian, pushing his hair out of his eyes with a completely straight face, and Ralf creased up with laughter, squeezing Flori's shoulder gently. So they were at ease again after the concert; that was a relief.

>>I'll protect you<< teased Ralf. >>I'm not afraid of spiders. I'm not afraid of anything.<<

>>Yes you are. You're afraid of the Architectural Exam<< said Claudia.

>>I am not.<< Ralf sounded outraged at the very thought.

>>So why don't you come to Aachen for the preparatory course?<< Claudia prodded. >>You were signed up to do the test and the interview ages ago - I know for a fact my father gave you a personal reference.<<

>>Because I am happier in Düsseldorf<< insisted Ralf. >>My friends, and my family - not to mention my beautiful new girlfriend - are all here.<< My face grew warm at the compliment, though I knew he could not see me, standing behind them in the door.

>>You are afraid of going to Aachen<< said Claudia in a sing-song voice. >>You know that the technical school in Aachen has a much better reputation than the one in Düsseldorf, and you could not sit easily at the top of your classes the way you do here. I think you are afraid of real competition.<<

>>I am nothing of the sort. You sound like my stupid father when you talk like that. And why are you so keen for me to go to Aachen anyway?<<

>>Do you not know why? I will tell you why<< said Florian, quietly, but with a sharp tone to his voice that I knew was a warning. >>Because my beloved sister thinks that if you go away to Aachen, that Power Station will break up, and I will stop mucking about with experimental music, and finish my own degree, then go off to work in _our_ father's stupid office. Don't you, dear sister. <<

>>Flori...<< said Claudia, and pursed her lips.

>>It's true, though, isn't it.<< Florian persisted.

>>Flori, you and I have opportunities that most designers only dream of. I am pushing Ralfie to take the exam because I know that he is good, and with adequate training, he could be great. But you and me, it doesn't matter if we pass or fail our exams, there will always be a job waiting for us in Schneider-Esleben GmbH. I think it's stupid of you both not to want to take up these opportunities.<<

>>But don't you see?<< protested Florian, and I could see the colour was really coming up on the back of his neck, like he was getting very angry. >>If it doesn't matter whether I pass or fail, why should I do it at all? I want to pass or fail on my own terms, not because of what doors my father does or doesn't open for me. How can you not understand this?<<

>>Ralf is ambitious, even if you're not<< Claudia observed very carefully, and I could see Ralf tense, opposite her on the sofa, with Flori between. >>He is not going to stay the organ player in a little experimental art-rock band forever. He will go to Aachen and sit the exams, if not this year, then next. Mark my words.<<

>>I do not want to go to Aachen; it's my father that wants me to go to Aachen.<< Ralf spat.

>>And even if he does, I will keep Power Station going<< insisted Florian. >>I will keep Power Station going until the earth falls into the sun, just to show both our fathers that I can.<<

But Ralf turned to Florian, his face dark. >>You would keep Power Station going without me?<<

>>Of course I would. I expect you would do the same.<< Florian shrugged.

>>I wouldn't go on without you.<<

>>You would, you know. And you are a very bad liar.<<

Ralf rose competitively to the bait. >>I am an _excellent_ liar, I'll have you know. <<

Florian turned his head to the side, his eyes ice cold. >>No. No, you're not.<<

For a moment, Ralf just sat there, looking at his friend, as the full meaning of what he had just said hit him. But the moment passed, as Florian turned back to his sister with a fraternal smile and resumed their friendly quarrel. Still, Ralf seemed rattled, as he climbed to his feet, muttering something about his drink being finished, and made his way unsteadily towards the door. Afraid of being caught eavesdropping, I stepped inside, as if pretending I had only just arrived.

>>Oh here you are. I was wondering where you had got to<< I said brightly.

>>I think I've had enough of the party, Liebling. Let's go to bed.<< Ralf said, taking me by the hand and leading me across the hall, taking his keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door.

>>I need to give this gown back to Silke<< I hedged. >>Do you have something I can wear in the meantime?<<

In the day since I had been there last, Ralf's room had acquired two large suitcases that lay on the floor, though he still had no wardrobes or other furniture. Digging through, he tossed me a pair of jeans, and then a black turtleneck. Both hung on me oddly, the jeans slightly too short and the turtleneck slightly too wide for my narrow shoulders, but I slipped the dress off and folded it up in a plastic shopping bag. >>I'll come with you<< said Ralf, when I told him I was going to look for Silke, as if he didn't entirely trust me to come back of my own accord.

Pushing our way through the crowds, we finally found Silke all the way at the other end of the massive apartment, lying on a home-made looking carved bedstead with Emil, both of them smoking something evil-smelling from a large hookah.

>>I brought you the dress, safe and sound<< I told her. >>Thank you for letting me borrow it. I'm not sure if I'm going back to the dormitory tonight, so I wanted to make sure you had it.<<

>>You can't stay here<< muttered Emil from the depths of an enormous pile of pillows, as smoke billowed out around him. >>I told you that, teengirl.<<

I looked back and forth between him and Silke, barely believing the hypocrisy I was hearing. >>Hey Silke<< I called. >>Did you manage to read any of that Gombrich book we are supposed to read for Design class?<<

>>None at all<< giggled Silke, rolling over onto her front as she took the hookah nozzle from Emil. >>I expect I will fail that class.<<

>>Don't worry, you're not failing anything<< laughed Emil, slapping her on the rump.

>>Oh<< I said, feigning naiveté. >>Well, that's very interesting. How can a student pass her classes without reading any of the books. That's very irregular. I wonder if I should tell Beuys... I think I saw him, back in the kitchen, discussing Indian folk art with Michael and Myrthe.<<

Suddenly Emil froze, a long plume of smoke emitting from between his lips as he studied me carefully, trying to work out if I was joking or not. I knew that Beuys was, technically, still his boss, so it was not a wager that he could risk losing. I could see it all running through his eyes, trying to remember if Beuys had come on to the party or stayed at the gallery. Finally he sat up, taking the nozzle back from Silke and leaving it on the side table. >>Actually, you know, Ralfie, I've been thinking. Perhaps I was a little harsh with you the other morning. I am your housemate, not your landlord or your father. It's none of my business who you sleep with, under your own roof.<<

I smirked triumphantly at him as Ralf nodded his accord. >>So Jan can stay the night with me, whenever she pleases?<<

Emil nodded darkly. >>Just Jan... wear some fucking knickers when you make the coffee in the morning, OK?<<

Silke opened her mouth to say something, but I had to leave the room before I started laughing, with Ralf trailing giggles in my wake. >>Oh my god<< he said, trying very hard to stifle laughter. >>And to think, I used to believe you were such a little mouse. I will never tangle with you again.<<

>>Even little mice can bite<< I told him with a warning glance.


	19. Fathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florian, who is at loggerheads with his father, moves into the apartment on the Berger Allee, much to Jan's and Ralf's delight.
> 
> But when the imminently to-be-released first Power Station album is delivered by accident to the Hütter family home in Krefeld, Ralf finds himself at odds with his father over his future and architecture school.

In the morning, Silke and I met in the kitchen again, both of us wearing men's shirts and boy-underpants, smirking at one another as we made coffee. So it seemed that Silke and Emil were back on. >>Jan<< she said mysteriously as she passed me the milk. >>I have had the best idea. Do you think you can ask Ralf something for me?<<

>>No<< I said, quite forcefully, as I did not want to be put into the position of having to become Ralf's social secretary. That idea really did not appeal to me. >>But you can ask him yourself.<< Gesturing for her to follow me, I pushed open the door to Ralf's room and stuck my head in, making sure that he was covered with the eiderdown. Since there was no other furniture, I perched on the edge of the bed, and gestured for Silke to sit at the other end. >>Ralf<< I said, prodding him awake as I handed him his cup of coffee.

Ralf sat up, blinking, and pushing his long hair out of his face, squinting his eyes as his glasses seemed to have gone missing. Maybe I was getting used to him, but he was actually quite cute in the morning, all puffy-faced, with his straggly beard coming in. The softness lent him a doll-like prettiness that was actually quite becoming.

>>I had an idea last night... well, I ran it by Emil and he thinks it's a great idea<< Silke ventured, blowing on her coffee to cool it. >>Since you did the art show last night... I got thinking about unconventional gigs that Power Station could play...<<

Ralf smiled, drinking his coffee quickly. He liked it so hot it almost burned the back of his throat. >>We enjoy unconventional concert appearances. We've played everywhere from art openings to... schools... to... architectural offices.<< I didn't even need to ask which specific architectural offices they had played. >>What did you have in mind?<<

>>You know that Jan and I have been preparing a couture collection, which will go towards my degree... and her final grade.<<

>>I haven't done anything<< I explained modestly. >>I've just worn the clothes and endured the pins.<<

>>She has provided most of the textiles - even designed some of them! - and given invaluable advice on design, and fit... I think Jan and I have been working together very well.<< Silke looked over at me with a smile I had learned to read as the one she used for _buttering people up_.

Ralf nodded. >>I know you have. I've seen Chan in her pins all semester.<<

>>So you know there will be an end of term show, at which we are going to unveil the collection, and Jan and I will wear the clothes, not on a catwalk, but in the Kunstakademie auditorium, at the Degree Show.<< Silke continued.

Ralf broke into a wide grin, pushing his greasy hair out of his face so that it stood up in a crest above his forehead. >>So I'm dating a model? I never thought in a million years, that I could sleep with a model.<<

>>Shut up<< I warned him, kicking him through the bedclothes. >>I'm nothing of the sort; I'm only doing it for a favour.<< Remembering the contraceptive pills that favour had obtained me, I dug in my handbag for one, and swallowed it with my coffee.

>>I couldn't get real models. They are too expensive. But Jan comes for free.<< Silke teased. I threw a pillow at her, spilling her coffee, and Ralf fussed over the stains on the bedsheets until I found a towel to mop it up. >>In Paris, in the big fashion houses<< ventured Silke, when the mess was cleared. >>They play music, to set the scene, to establish the mood, to complement the designs. Now, we could do that, too. We could play a record, but really... our designs are supposed to represent futuristic ideas... Space-age clothing. Wouldn't it be better to get a space-age, futuristic band to compose... improvisational music... to interact with the clothes, and the models, and the performance.<<

Ralf grinned like the cat that got the cream, as he realised what was being asked. >>Well. Do you two know any space-age, futuristic, improvisational musicians who might be interested?<<

>>I don't know, do we?<< asked Silke, batting her eyelashes at Ralf as I nearly collapsed in laughter at how easily she used her looks and her sexuality to bend men to her will. Really, I knew I should have disapproved, but I was a little bit in awe of Silke's charm.

It was also almost unbearably hilarious to watch how Ralf was reduced to absolute putty in the hands of an attractive woman as he kind of squidged up his shoulders and smiled at her from under his hair. >>I have to ask Flori, but I'm sure he will do it. In fact, I think we will both be very excited to compose music for catwalk models to promenade to. Just let me know the date, so I can be sure that we have no other commitments.<<

>>You're a sweetheart, really, Hütter<< said Silke, bending forward to kiss him gently on the cheek, before hopping down from the bed, and skipping off back to Emil's chamber.

Ralf watched her go with a faintly disappointed expression. >>Well<< he said with a sigh. >>You would have thought she could stay, and... express her gratitude in some way. More kisses would be a start.<<

I just looked at him, faintly annoyed, and hit him with the pillow, since he had no more coffee to spill.

>>Hey!<< he protested. >>You were the one who told me that you had been with women. Don't you find Silke attractive? I think that she is very pretty.<<

>>You're gross. She's my friend<< I told him coldly, climbing off the bed.

>>No, no, don't be like that. Come back. That's not fair, that I go from having two girls in my bed, to having none...<<

I didn't even bother turning around to glare at him as I picked up our coffee mugs and carried them through into the kitchen. 

>>If neither you nor Silke are going to give me a fuck, then I'm going to have a shower and a shave<< he called back, climbing out of bed and searching for his things. I could not tell if he was joking, and didn't really want to know.

He kissed me on the shoulder as he passed, but I headed for the kitchen. Someone was knocking about in there, and I was so completely sure from the masculine tramp of heavy shoes that it was Emil, that I called out ahead of me >>I'm nude! I'm nuuuuude! I'm completely naked, I'm an utterly naked teenage nymph wandering about your apartment in the buff!<< And then I pranced into the kitchen with dramatic effect, to confront the completely surprised and ever so slightly worried looking face of Florian.

>>Zhan<< he said, bending towards me with a concerned expression. >>Are you high already? It's awfully early in the morning.<<

I was absolutely mortified, covering my face with my hands as I flushed the colour of Ralf's watermelon shirt. >>I... Oh my god, I am sorry. I thought you were Emil. It would take entirely far too long to explain the joke so... so I won't.<<

>>I have never known Emil to object to naked women of any age... or is that the joke?<< Florian tilted his head to the side as if considering this.

>>What are you doing here, anyway?<< I demanded, changing the subject swiftly.

Florian frowned, digging in Emil's refrigerator for milk for his coffee. >>I argued with my sister again last night, so I thought it was better she go home without me - don't worry, I put her in a cab. I wouldn't leave her wandering the streets by herself at that hour.<<

>>But you and your sister seemed to be arguing so playfully... at the gallery.<< I didn't want him to know I had overheard their conversation.

>>Well. Unlike that one, this one wasn't playful.<<

>>What did you argue about?<< I probed, digging in the other fridge, our fridge, to find him a fresh litre of milk. That, at least, I knew was reasonably fresh, unlike whatever horrors lurked at the back of Emil's fridge.

>>I do not want to talk about it<< Flori said darkly. >>Besides, it's my name on the lease here, so Emil cannot object to my occupying a room that my father still earns him a considerable discount on.<< From the poisonous tone with which he said 'my father' I gathered that this was the subject on which the siblings had disagreed.

>>Oh, Flori. Come and have coffee with me<< I told him, refilling my mug, before gesturing for him to follow me into Ralf's and my room. >>I'm sorry it's such a mess. You know what Ralf is like<< I apologised, as he trailed behind me. I gestured for him to take the spot at the end of the bed that Silke had only just vacated. As I slipped in where Ralf had been lying, I decided that I liked this decadent, visiting one another in bed after a party thing. It made me feel very grown up, entertaining while we were all in what passed for pyjamas - well, all of us except Flori, who was wearing the party clothes he'd slept in. >>Come on, Flori, you know you can tell me. What did you and Claudia argue about?<<

This time, Florian looked down into his coffee cup as if he was thinking about actually telling me, shifting his shoulders about as if trying to find a comfortable position against the wall. He looked at the door, worried, then took a gulp of coffee. >>Where's Ralf?<<

>>Gone for a shave and a shower. You know that will take him at least an hour.<<

His face relaxed slightly. Finally he sighed, and spat it out, though it was obviously hard for such a reticent German to talk about such things. >>We argued about her upcoming marriage.<<

>>Why? Do you not like the lad, or something?<<

Flori shrugged and shook his head. >>He seems alright. The problem is not the lad, it is - as always - our father.<<

>>I had a feeling that was it<< I said quietly, blowing on my coffee to cool it before drinking. I did not have Flori or Ralf's asbestos throat. >>What's he done.<<

>>Claudia is not yet 21, so she needs our father's permission to marry.<< Flori said quietly, as if it were costing him a great deal to explain this all. >>Now, she turns 21 in a few months, so the permission is not the big deal it sounds like. But the big deal is this - he will not release the money for her to have a proper wedding, until she finishes University.<<

I looked at him carefully. >>That is not a terrible idea, you know.<<

>>Except it is?<< Florian looked up at me warily from under his eyebrows. >>This is how my father operates. He controls people with money. I told Claudia, if she really loves the lad, forget about this money. Wait the few months, and marry him when she turns 21. Have a small wedding, invite only a few people, maybe even elope. But no! She is stubborn, and she wants to do it the traditional way. She wants a big wedding, and our father giving away the bride, and for that... She is so conservative! She is willing to do whatever he wants, just like she is sacrificing her goals and her dreams in order to look after his stupid architectural office.<< Hunching over, Florian had tied himself in a small knot as he explained this.

>>Flori, you know if a woman gets married while she is at university, it changes so much for her. It creates so many problems. So many layers of bureaucracy and hassle. She is no longer allowed to live in the dormitories, for a start.<<

>>Claudia doesn't live in the dorms. She has an apartment in Aachen - a very nice part of Aachen - again, that our father pays for.<< Florian pointed out.

>>It's not just that. People's attitudes towards her change. Professors are not so willing to help with extracurricular studies any more. Why would they go out of their way for a married woman? And so they don't.<<

>>That's unethical<< said Flori stiffly. He could be very unrelenting when it came to questions of morality. >>I mean, you all joke about Emil and Silke and sexual politics, but that is genuinely unethical. Why should it make a difference?<<

>>No<< I said. >>It's not sexual, it's just the expectations. They think... why is this woman trying to get an education and better herself, when she's not going to have a career after all? She's going to give it up and start a family and look after her husband. So why help her at all. It's not fair, but that's how people treat her.<<

>>And how would you know this<< protested Flori. >>You're not married. Yet.<< His eyes drifted to Ralf's two suitcases on the floor opposite the bed.

I bristled. I had no intention of ever getting married ever, and certainly not to Ralf. >>It happened to a friend of mine at St Martin's, who got married in her second year. She dropped out halfway through her third, it was so hard for her. And she was one of the most talented painters I've ever met.<<

>>Ah, but that is England<< announced Flori with jaunty confidence. >>Germany is not the same.<<

>>No, you're right. Germany is more sexist<< I almost snapped back, before gaining control and modulating my voice again. This was Florian, who I knew meant well, though if Ralf had said it, I'd have bitten his head off. >>So, you know, if Claudia waits until after she graduates to get married, really, that is not such a terrible idea.<<

Florian was looking at me carefully, as if trying to make up his mind whether to believe me or not, but after a few minutes, he nodded sharply. >>OK, so maybe you are correct. I see your - and her - point more clearly.<< He looked down at his hands, fiddling with the piece of string that held the cover on our eiderdown. >>You think maybe I should apologise to my sister for arguing with her, perhaps?<<

I tried hard not to laugh, remembering how Flori had forced me to apologise to Ralf in a beergarden near Neanderthal. >>Yes, maybe that would be a good idea.<<

>>Do you think I should go back home, or do you think I should hide out here at the Berger Allee for a few more days first?<< Flori asked with a sheepish grin that showed his mood was starting to improve.

>>You know<< I said, as tactfully as I could. >>Flori, I think there is a problem in your home, but it is not your sister.<<

Florian looked down at his hands some more, untying and retying the string, over and over compulsively. >>Maybe perhaps you are correct in this, too.<< Just a sliver of icy blue eye appeared beneath his eyebrows. >>I think you are becoming very wise for a naked teenage girl.<<

>>I will take that as a compliment<< I said quietly, suppressing the urge to laugh as Ralf's head suddenly appeared at the door, looking back and forth between us, completely confused.

>>Hello... I didn't realise you were still here, Flori. So the spiders didn't eat you, then?<<

>>No, I have made friends with the spiders, and the biggest of them is now my pet. I am going to train her to bite record company busy-bodies and drummers from rival bands, what do you think?<<

>>So what were you and Chan talking about, then?<< Ralf demanded, slightly suspiciously, as he folded his dirty clothes and put them into one of the suitcases.

>>You know.<< Flori smiled mysterious and looked at me with such a guarded look that I instantly understood. He did not want Ralf to know his family problems. >>Machines, maths, pineapples.<<

We spent the rest of the morning talking, exchanging ideas for how we might go about doing the catwalk show, and soon we had cheered Florian up enough for him to offer ridiculous suggestions about rhythm tracks based on tape loops of zipper noises and popping buttons. I liked Flori best when he was being fanciful and silly, the way he would let his mind just run riot in freeform flights of imagination. But I couldn't shake the feeling that, even though his mood had improved, he was watching Ralf and I, quote closely for signs of... well, that I didn't know. But he was definitely studying me; I could feel the heat of those silvery eyes even when I turned away.

That evening, Florian asked Ralf and I to go with him, when he went up to his parents' house to apologise to his sister, and collect enough of this things to survive a few weeks at the Berger Allee. >>My mother will make sure my father doesn't make too much of a fight, if I have friends with me. She really doesn't like dirty laundry being aired in front of outsiders.<<

>>What are you fighting with your father about now?<< sighed Ralf, and I had to remind myself that he had not witnessed our conversation in the bedroom.

>>The same things as ever.<<

>> _Quit your foolish, irresponsible music and go to architecture school like a good obedient German son_ << supplied Ralf in a self-important tone he probably fancied sounded middle-aged, but reminded me exactly of the way he bossed Klaus and Michael about.

>>The same refrain fathers always sing to their sons from time immemorial. Do you want I should teach my pet spider to bite your father, too?<< Florian exchanged wry smiles with his friend.

And so the three of us piled into the grey VW and drove up to Golzheim. Flori instructed us to park on the street, but then he lead us in round a back way, bypassing the front door I had thought so intimidating, until we found ourselves back at the swimming pool, and walking up past the balcony to a third level. He knocked on a set of French Doors, which slid back to reveal his rather surprised looking sister.

As he entered, he put his shoulders stiffly up about his ears and spat out all in a rush >>Look Claudia I'm very sorry I was mistaken I was an ass I did not mean to offend you you were right I was wrong let's not fight any more I am the most sorry a worm of a brother like me could possibly be.<<

Claudia laughed and hugged him. >>You don't need to apologise to me, you cabbage-headed fool.<< But then she saw Ralf and I lurking behind him, and gestured for us to come in. >>Oh! Are you and your friends going to stay for dinner?<<

Flori shook his head in that short, violent motion that made his hair fly out about his ears. He seemed to have reverted to being a sulky, wordless teenager as soon as he set foot in the house. She pouted, her face darkening, and he finally explained. >>No, Claudia. Things are a drag here right now. It's not a good scene. I'm going to go and stay with Ralf and Emil for a bit.<<

Her look turned poisonous, that same expression of cold fury that was so familiar from her brother's face. >>Are you avoiding me, then?<<

>>Not at all.<< Again, that quick, violent shake of the head, as Flori screwed up his eyes. >>You know exactly who I'm avoiding.<<

>>Alright<< sighed Claudia. >>Go and get your things. You needn't worry. Dad's buggered off to Hamburg to give a lecture, but I'll tell Mother for you.<< She hugged Ralf as he passed, but left me alone.

I followed him across the landing, realising that I had never seen this part of the house before. His room was large, but not as big as I was expecting, and more crucially, it was simply filled with _stuff_. That I had not been expecting. From Flori's austere exterior, I had been expecting him to live like Ralf - an empty room with a mattress and nothing more in the way of decoration or belongings. But Flori was like a pack-rat. His room was simply full to overflowing with... things. Clothes. Books. Records. Bits of dismantled electronics. Mismatched pairs of shoes. At least three bicycle wheels and a gearbox, but no bicycle. Maps and diagrams and bits of pages from magazines stuck all over the walls. I was almost afraid that I might look about and find discarded bits of food piled on filthy plates and coffee cups growing mould, but then I remembered the maid.

Unaware of how strange his environment seemed to others, Flori took down a suitcase from on top of an overstuffed cupboard and threw it on the bed, then started to gather clothes to put into it. Dungarees. Overalls. A few shirts, some floral and some checked. Cotton boxer shorts in a rainbow of colours. Sandals. Hiking boots. A shapeless grey cardigan.

But after a few minutes, there was a knock on the door, and Klaus stuck his shaggy head inside. >> _Dude_ << he said. >>You're moving out?<<

>>Only for a short while<< Flori said, with a somewhat misplaced air of confidence.

>>Dude, I can't stay here if you move out<< protested Klaus, raising one of his implausibly thin arms and scratching his thick thatch of hair.

>>I don't see why not. My mother likes you. You've completely charmed her.<<

>>Floooooorian!<< The dulcet tones of the family matriarch called up the stairs just ahead of her arrival. >>Flori, your sister tells me you are leaving us.<<

Flori positively squirmed, and changed from about 15 to about 5 before my eyes as she swept into the room. >>I'm just going to stay with Ralf and Emil for a few days, Mama, maybe weeks. We need to prepare for our upcoming shows and our record's release, and their apartment is closer to our studio<< he lied, and not very well.

Klaus rolled his eyes, then sighed deeply. >>I'll get my things.<<

>>You're going nowhere, young man<< announced Evamaria, and Klaus froze, though Flori carried on packing, adding a few pairs of socks to the mounting pile. >>Where are you going to go?<<

>>I told you. The apartment on Berger Allee.<<

>>And you?<< Evamaria looked up at Klaus.

>>I...<< He shrugged, scratching his hair again. >>I don't know. I suppose I could see if Michael's room is still going at the squat. If not, I could always live in the van again.<<

>>You are doing absolutely nothing of the sort!<< insisted Evamaria. >>If my one and only son is abandoning his family, and moving off to live in squalor with artists and musicians, we are going to need _someone_ to stay in the house while Paul is away teaching in Hamburg, to keep robbers and worse from breaking in and despoiling his mother and sisters... <<

>>Oh.<< Klaus brightened, then shrugged. >>Right then, I'll stay, shall I<< he announced, and shuffled off back in the direction of his room.

Evamaria turned back to Florian. >>So this is it. You are going to leave your mother and sisters to be protected by a lodger?<<

Flori shrugged, crumpling his shoulders together defensively. The confident, happy young man that had so impressed Beuys with his nonchalant flute-playing in the face of celebrity pressure seemed to have totally evaporated the moment he had stepped within the threshold of his family home. >>Klaus is unconventional, but he is a good man.<<

Evamaria whirled on us. >>Will you stay for dinner?<< she announced, though it sounded more like a threat than an invitation.

>>Ooh<< said Ralf, his eyes lighting up at the thought of whatever spread the Schneider-Esleben household could produce, compared to the meagre offerings of a bachelor apartment. >>I'd love...<<

>>We can't!<< I interrupted, casting about for any reason or excuse. >>I am due back at the dormitory by 6.<<

>>The little mouse squeaks<< exclaimed Evamaria.

>>Yes. We have to get the little mouse back to her hole<< Flori said, quite plainly, with a wink in my direction, as he closed his suitcase, fastened it, then picked it up off the bed. Holding his head even more erect than normal, he carried it across the room, then stopped, stooping to kiss his mother on the cheek. >>Goodbye, mother. I will be back in a week, maybe more. Give my love to Tina.<< And with that, he turned and strode from the room, trailing Ralf and I in his wake as he headed for his sister's room, and the external staircase. >>Goodbye, Claudia, good luck with your exams<< he called, as he opened the door and stepped out. It was the most peculiar and somehow most restrained parting I had ever seen, the sort of non-drama drama that only Florian could create around him.

Claudia caught at my sleeve as I passed. >>Look after him. Please.<< she mouthed, though we both knew their mother was listening in the corridor outside.

>>I will try<< I mouthed back, then stepped out, following my lover and my friend back down the stairs.

Back out on the street, as he carried his suitcase towards the Beetle, I saw Florian's shoulders finally relax, and go back to their normal position, though he still maintained his customary erect carriage. >>Well<< he announced as we reached the car. >>That went better than I expected.<<

Ralf and I simply stared at one another, utterly gobsmacked.

\----------

Over the next few weeks, the three of us gelled into a social unit as solid as the new, four-piece line-up of Power Station. We went everywhere together, except to class, and separated into pairs to go to the studio, and to bed. I was not allowed into their studio; Florian was not allowed into our bed, though he did often hang about in our room until well after it was probably polite, ignoring Ralf's hints that we might want to be alone. For that, I was coming to be oddly grateful. I was spending most of my free time round the Berger Allee, not for Ralf's benefit, to be honest, but because Michael had essentially moved into my dorm room.

So if Ralf - or even just Florian - was home, I would invite myself round, put on a pot of coffee and chat in the kitchen; or else settle down with my textbooks on Florian's dusty sofa, listening to him practising on his little piccolo flute until Ralf got back from class. Those were the times I liked the best, to be honest, because Flori never demanded that I entertain him, or pay attention to him in the way that Ralf did. Flori was content to just let me _be_ ; he did not mind my silence when I was concentrating.

I suppose, in an odd way, it felt a little bit like dating Ralf was just the price I had to pay for the pleasure of Florian's company. And with time, it became easy enough to pacify Ralf, with sex, or even just a bit of attention. And then I was free to spend the rest of the day talking with Florian, playing word games with him, delighting in the way his quicksilver mind seemed to respond to my ideas. It's funny to think how we kept ourselves entertained in those bare student rooms with no furniture, no television, and few creature comforts. But that house contained marvels beyond compare in that it contained the yin-yang dynamic of Florian and Ralf.

The pair of them complemented one another's personalities in a strange way that spilled over often into surreal fun. Ralf, so driven and demanding, seemed to find a sense of humour when Flori was around to gently rib him. And Flori, normally so flighty, so mercurial, unable to sit still for more than a minute, would alight with us, and settle. Florian's problem, I discovered, was that he had no tolerance for monotony. He could not stand to be _bored_. But if Ralf set him a task, or I set him a mental problem, he would fixate with single-minded relentlessness, and just become engaged in a way I could almost see little wheels clicking into gear behind his eyes when he got excited by something.

I had never known two men to talk like that so much together, deep, urgent, encompassing every topic from the perfect breakfast to the state of their musical work to the existence or non-existence of God, never quite in perfect agreement, yet never entirely disagreeing, either, simply dancing around each other in conversation for the sheer joy of exercising their opinions and knowing each others' minds. To my ears, they talked like girls were supposed to, just constantly, endlessly whispering to one another, finishing one another's sentences and picking up one another's thoughts. Sometimes it seemed as if they had one mind, with two bodies. I would forget which conversations about black holes or autodestructive kinetic art or machine intelligence I had had with Ralf, and which I had had with Florian. In a strange way, it didn't seem to matter. Anything I told one of them permeated through directly to the other.

And so the three of us fell into our roles. Florian, who had just discovered Astrology, and was going through a bit of an obsession, insisted it was all predicated by our star signs. Ralf as the restless vortex of Leo energy that drove us forward, Florian, with his Aries stubbornness, as his cynical and surreal comic foil, and myself, a Capricorn... Well. I don't know if I was supposed to be the audience or the prize, but I knew it was always more balanced when it was the three of us, rather than just me and my supposed boyfriend.

And then, one day in late November, when the nights were drawing in, and the wind was starting to pick up, blowing off the river and rattling the windows in Ralf's room, Florian came home whistling, with a large, square packet tied up with string tucked under his arm.

>>Can you tell what it is?<< Florian said aloud.

>>It looks like a gramophone record<< I observed.

>>It's a very special gramophone record<< intoned Flori.

Suddenly Ralf looked up from the textbook on the tensile qualities of steel versus concrete that he had been cramming from. >>That's not what I think it is, is it? But it's not out until next week. There's a party for us at the Creamcheese Club.<<

>>It is, and there is<< said Flori, pulling back the paper to reveal a large, plain white square, emblazoned with a huge cartoonish painting of an orange traffic cone, with the word >>POWER STATION<< screen printed over the top. It was an unusual, eye-catching design, completely unlike anything I'd seen before. (Well, maybe it was a little like the first Velvet Underground album, but without the peel or the banana.) >>Advance copy<< he said proudly.

I let out a little gasp. Though I could see Ralf was trying to play it cool, like, yeah, sure, having a record out was something that happened to him every week, Florian's excitement was contagious. " _Sehr_ cool," I observed in my mangled Germanglish.

>>Where did you get this?<< Ralf asked, pretending to be nonchalant as I took it and turned it over, opening up the gatefold to see a large black and white art photo of a step-up transformer. On one side was a photo of Ralf, his thick wavy hair looking all golden in sunlight. On the other was a photo of Florian, and it must have been an old photo, because he still had short hair, his flute raised to his lips.

>>The record company sent it to my parents' house. I don't think I remembered to tell them that I moved.<<

>>You're lucky your father didn't have it burned<< Ralf sneered.

>>No<< said Flori thoughtfully. >>He rang and told me it had come. He actually sounded, well... _proud_ , so I went to collect it. He asked me to show him the album art, but I told him no, it's a surprise. You have to go to the shop and buy one yourself. I actually think he will.<<

Ralf took the record from me and stared at it thoughtfully, but then his face fell. >>I don't think I told them I've moved, either. But I've not had a phone call from Krefeld...<<

But Flori was already striding down the hall. >>Has Emil seen it yet? Emil! Emiiiillll, can we used your big stereo system?<<

The four of us gathered in the large hall to play it, ceremonially crowding round the turntable as Flori put it on. The beautiful, floating opening chords of Ruckzuck wafted out across the room, Flori bouncing excitedly to hear it, like he just could not contain his joy, while Ralf crouched immobile by the speakers, staring intently at the vinyl as it spun.

>>It's mastered very soft<< he said critically. >>You don't think it sounds too quiet?<<

>>Well, turn it up<< urged Emil, picking up the cover and looking through the liner notes.

>>The drums _do_ sound good << I noted, as the song hit its driving rhythm.

>>This is not the bit Flori made us re-record<< snorted Ralf, still frowning. Both of them were now kneeling by the stereo, intent upon the record as if it were a holy altar. Flori, however, unlike Ralf, was grinning like a loon, tapping out his flute fingering against the fabric of his dungarees, as if he were physically unable to contain his excitement. The music, anarchic and gleeful, spilled from the speakers, the perfect mix of Ralf's obsessive perfectionism and Florian's tinkering playfulness. I listened, entranced, as the album travelled through moods and sound sculptures, two tracks to each side. Squealing feedback and a martial beat gave way to a driving stretch of music as hard as falling rain. Pastoral stretches of lovingly gentle duets for organ and flute. An aerial bombardment of Florian's motor noises, heavy aircraft and fighter planes, giving way to one of those extended sequences where Ralf and Florian's instruments barked at one another in almost human cadences. I almost laughed aloud, with delight rather than mockery, but restrained myself when I saw the intensity on Ralf's face.

>>Well<< he said gravely, pushing his hair out of his face. >>What do you think?<<

I laughed and embraced him, my arms around his shoulders as I pushed my lips against his cheek. >>What do you think I think? I think it's amazing.<<

>>Shall we listen to it again?<< asked Florian, too excited to contain his obvious pride.

>>Yes, let's...<< I laughed, putting my other arm around Flori's shoulders as the opening scale of Ruckzuck started again.

But halfway through Megaherz, a rough mechanical ringing sound interrupted a pastoral bell sequence. Grumbling to himself at how utterly engrossed Ralf and Florian were, Emil got up to answer the phone, but he came back a minute later, his face grim. >>You better take that, Ralf. It's your father.<<

As Ralf climbed slowly to his feet, his face changed utterly, from pride to fear. As he picked up the phone and started to speak, I strained to hear him, but the music was too loud. And he seemed fairly monosyllabic, anyway, barely moving his lips except to say the occasional "Ja" as his face grew very dark.

He was on the phone for some time, but he came back before the record was ended, interrupting it by gently lifting the stylus from the vinyl and turning the sound off. >>I'm very sorry, but I will have to cut short the listening party. I must go to Krefeld this evening. Jan, I will drop you at your dormitory as I go.<<

>>She doesn't have to go home so soon<< protested Florian, glancing up at me. >>Emil and I can entertain her until you return.<<

>>I think I would like to be alone tonight<< Ralf said very quietly. Seeing how troubled his face was, I said nothing, but went back to his room and collected my things to go.

>>What did your father say?<< I asked, when we were alone outside, walking to go and find the Volkswagen.

>>As I feared, the record came to my parents' house<< he said quietly.

>>He wasn't proud?<< I asked, already knowing the answer to that from his angry-disappointed-sad face.

>>No, he was furious. Because, you see, another thing came in the post, at the same time. A letter from the University at Aachen, confirming my interview appointment, and the date of the entrance exam.<<

>>Wait, how did he know what it was?<<

>>My father reads my post.<<

>>Your father does _what_? << I would be hopping mad if anyone in my family touched my private correspondence. So it seemed that Ralf was not the only control freak in his family.

>>How else is he supposed to decide what is important, and needs to be passed on to me immediately, and what can wait until I come to visit?<< Ralf shrugged, as if parental surveillance at the age of 24 were the most normal thing in the world.

>>And this is important?<<

Ralf nodded. >>The interview is next week. This is why he is so angry. It is next week, same as the record release party, and he does not think I can do both effectively.<<

>>Can you?<<

He looked irritated that I had even doubted him enough to ask. >>Of course I can!<< he snapped, but then relented as he unlocked the door of the Beetle for me. >>What I cannot do, however, is complete the accelerated exam preparation course next semester, and also go on the promotional tour of Germany that Flori has booked.<<

>>You don't even know if you will get in<< I pointed out.

>>Of course I will get in<< Ralf snorted. I cocked an eyebrow at this arrogance. >>Herr Professor Schneider-Esleben has personally vouched for my capability. I would have to fail the entrance test most flagrantly not to be admitted.<<

>>What are you going to do?<< I asked nervously. It wasn't something I wanted to think about; whether I wanted a famous architect for a boyfriend, or the penniless lead organist of an experimental band.

>>If I were Flori, I would simply fail the test<< he observed with a wry smile. I looked at him, puzzled, and he explained. >>You don't know this story? In high school, Flori rebelled against his father by failing all of his exams except Music Composition, and Flute.<<

>>Did Flori not go to University, then?<< I could have sworn he talked often of classes he had taken at the Robert Schumann Conservatory.

>>His father had the last laugh. He took him out of his nice local school, with Michael and Wulfie Riechmann and all of his friends, and put him into a special boarding school, out on the other side of Köln, where they stuffed his head with facts, to make him pass the Abitur. It was not a lesson that Flori forgot.<< As he finished speaking, Ralf pulled up outside my dormitory and looked at me expectantly.

I kissed him tenderly and climbed out of the car. >>You're far too proud to fail an exam, anyway.<<

Ralf made a pained face, but then he smiled. >>You know me too well.<<


	20. Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Ralf is at an admissions interview for the architecture school in Aachen, Florian borrows his car - and his girlfriend - to drive down to Köln to see Can. After dancing to Holger's sinuous basslines - not to mention a heavy session of Class Bs - wears down her willpower, Jan finds herself badly let down by that pesky little VW Beetle of Ralf's for the second time in her life.

In the end, Ralf went to Aachen for the interview, catching a ride up with Claudia. I had intended to spend the evening studying diligently for my own exams, which were approaching ominously, but I was soon interrupted by an insistent tap on the window of my dorm room. I was startled for a moment, wondering if Ralf had somehow run away from obligations, but when I looked down to the pavement, it was only Flori standing out on the street, looking very dapper in his long, camel-hair coat.

>>Come to Köln with me<< he urged, as I opened the window, intending for him to swing up into my room, but he remained outside.

>>Whatever for?<< I cast a glance, lovingly, at my textbooks, but knew I would probably give in, as Flori was far more interesting than books.

>>The Can are playing at the Cosmic Kino, and I happen to have been given two spots on the guest list<< Flori boasted, standing on his tip-toes to rest his sharp chin on the windowsill. >>Now, originally these two spots were for Ralf and myself, but since Ralf is away, you will have to take his place.<<

For a moment only, I weighed it up. I had still not heard this magical band, The Can, that all of the students at the Kunstakademie talked about with such awe, and I admit, I was curious. But more than that, there was the obvious appeal of spending the evening alone with Florian, not to mention the prospect of dancing with him at the club.

I slammed my textbook shut and nodded. >>Alright. Give me five minutes to change my clothes and put on some cosmetics...<<

>>No need to change. You look fine as you are.<< Flori shrugged, grinning at how easily I had given in.

I looked down at my clothes, at my slovenly jeans and Ralf's rumpled turtleneck, which I had been wearing since the previous morning, then looked back at Florian askance. >>Let me at least put on a clean shirt, then I'll meet you at the front door - I'm not coming out the window.<<

With lightning speed, I changed to a pair of orange satin trousers - a thrift shop find - and a lemon yellow silk shirt that Silke had told me looked good with my hair. My hair... oh god, that was a disaster. It was just at that awful length where it wouldn't stand up, but neither would it lie down flat, just sticking out in tufts everywhere, so I pinched a leopard print scarf off Marlene and tied it round my head. A brief application of kohl, and I was ready to go, pulling on my suede boots. A coat? I looked at my boiled wool coat, and shook my head. I didn't want to have to cart it around a club all night, so I picked up a lighter velvet jacket I had bought at a thrift shop. I shut the window, locked it, and ran off down the hall so as not to keep Flori waiting.

When I got to the street, I found Flori sitting on the bonnet of a familiar-looking pale grey Volkswagen, examining a map. >>I thought we'd drive. That way we can stay as long as we like, and not worry about catching the train afterwards.<<

>>Does Ralf know you have his car?<<

Flori just smirked at me. >>What he doesn't know won't hurt him. And if he doesn't want me to borrow his car, he shouldn't leave his keys out on the kitchen table.<<

>>If you get in trouble, I am not going to back you up<< I teased, sliding into the passenger seat.

>>Yes you will.<< The smirk became that irresistible grin as he winked at me. He put the key in the ignition, then swerved out into the road without bothering to check for traffic. Oh Christ, how had I forgotten what a terrible driver Flori was? I _knew_ there was a reason that Ralf always drove us all everywhere. Gripping the door handle tightly, I steeled myself for the ordeal ahead.

Florian was in an expansive mood on the drive down, telling me all about an interesting article on spaceflight he had read in the paper that morning. He loved the idea of an zero-gravity laboratory in the vacuum of space, freed from the constraints and the contaminating atmosphere of Earth. When Flori got an idea in his head, he was like a dog with a bone, and wouldn't leave it alone, though to be honest, I was grateful for an interesting subject to take my mind off the terror of screaming down the motorway at high velocity with Flori at the wheel.

Due to his incessant speeding, we arrived in Köln earlier than expected, so he took me out for dinner at an Indian restaurant, slightly more expensive than I was prepared for, but he wouldn't hear of my paying. >>The evening is my treat<< he insisted, spreading his hands wide, and gesturing towards the menu. >>Get whatever you like. Have a drink, in fact. Have two if you like, as I can't, as I must drive.<<

We ate sag paneer with naan bread, and delightful sautéed ladyfingers, and these strange little pastries filled with spices and yoghurt that seemed to explode in the mouth. He didn't even admonish me, as Ralf would have, when I reached for them with my fingers. >>In Hyderabad, we ate all of this with our hands<< I explained apologetically, but Flori just winked.

>>I won't tell Ralf.<< he intoned solemnly, though his eyes were laughing at me. I had learned, with Flori, always to watch his eyes. He could fake a manic grin, even when he was furious, and keep his mouth a stiff line when amused, but his eyes gave everything away.

After dinner, we strolled around the city for a bit, which I had never seen, with Flori pointing out various landmarks and architectural sites of interest. >>Of course, it is not as good as the one in Düsseldorf<< he would say of everything from church towers to beer halls to skyscrapers. It was an endless source of constant delight that Florian just seemed to _know_ everything, as if he had a photographic memory for maps and tourist guides and information posts. And not even in that show-off, arrogant way that Ralf insisted that he knew everything (even when he did not) but in an open, honest, delighted to share his interests, sort of playfulness.

We completed our brief tourist's circuit, then made our way to the former movie theatre where the concert would be held, as it was becoming too cold to hang about. The warmth had gone with the sun, and it was shaping up to be an icy night.

>>I'm freezing<< I muttered, and Florian extended an arm, pulling me inside his enormous camel-hair coat.

>>Here.<<

At the club, there was a brief tussle with the woman on the door, as "Flori Von Schneider Von Esteban" was on the list, but he did not, after all, have a plus one.

>>That's me<< I said, pointing at Ralf's name on the list. >>Ralf Hütter.<<

>>You never were a Ralf<< said the woman disbelievingly, staring pointedly at my satin trousers.

>>No, Ralf is my boyfriend<< I explained patiently.

>>How many boyfriends do you have?<< asked the woman, her eyes flickering disapprovingly towards Florian, who was still standing a bit too close to me - and clearly, she had seen us walk up together, his coat wrapped around my shoulders.

>>Well<< I suggested, emboldened by the gin and bitter lemon Flori had bought me at the Indian restaurant. >>Haven't you heard of free love?<<

But fortunately, as she was considering this, clucking her tongue at us all the while, Holger spotted Florian and came bumbling over. >>Flori! So good of you to come... but where is Ralf? To have Mr Yin without Mr Yang, this is most unusual.<<

Flori grinned at the unusual metaphor; then followed it with the kind of punning allusion that delighted him. >>Mr Yang has an examination, so he has sent his charming missus in his place, and now you have Mr Yin and Mrs Yang. Or Yan DeLay, as we call her.<<

Holger looked at me, and as he recognised me, burst into laughter. >>So you wooed your man with watermelon, after all.<< I flushed bright red, forgetting that he had been at that awful party of Florian's. Bending down, he crossed Ralf's name off the guest list and wrote 'Jan Our Lady of the Watermelon' in its place. >>Never mind, never mind, this is delightful<< he said, taking me by the arm and pulling me away from the fuming ticket collector, into the club. >>You are much prettier than Ralf, and Damo always performs with more animation if there is a surfeit of pretty girls in the audience.<<

Quickly, he whisked us across the club's floor, then took us backstage, offering us both draws from a small, pungent pipe that was doing the rounds of the dressing room. I shook my head briskly, wondering if I could get a drink instead, but I saw Flori take a couple of hits - somewhat hypocritically, I thought, as he had already refused a gin and bitter lemon at the restaurant on the grounds that he had to drive. His grin grew even more euphoric as he smoked, falling into an easy-going conversation about the impossibility of soundwaves in the vacuum of outer space with Holger and the keyboard-player. He was still fixated on the idea of the Space-Laboratory, and wondered if a Space-Recording-Studio would be free of external sound distractions. I found myself talking with a very attractive young man with long, curly dark hair and an appealing smirk, who poured me a gin and tonic, so I was soon very happy. But really, despite or maybe because of the warmth and friendliness of the club, I wanted to be on my feet dancing.

But finally, once band and audience were properly lubricated, our friends made their way to the small raised section that functioned as stage. It was one of those hippie clubs with no real distinction between performer and audience, the band gathered around in a circle, facing one another, as people wandered about, girls sometimes even coming up to dance in the clear space between guitarist and keyboard-player. This didn't seem to bother the singer in the slightest, in fact he even seemed to encourage it, extending his hand to people whose grooving he approved of, to try to pull them into the circle with him. But I demurred when he turned to me, clinging to Flori's side.

I liked the music, though it was even more freeform and meandering than Power Station. Power Station, at least, had delineated clear beginnings and endings to their pieces, enforced rigourously by Klaus's meticulous time-keeping, though the middle sections could stretch out or collapse, depending on band and audience's mood. The Can, however, seemed to have no beginning or end to their pieces. Holger and the drummer - Jaki, I thought he had said? the handsome man who had kindly found me gin backstage - seemed to hit grooves as they found them, locking tight into long, rhythmically complex sections as the rest of the band meandered about them. The singer, however, was improvising completely, making up rhymes on the spot based on the chaos happening all around him, sometimes in English, sometime in German, and sometimes in a strange rhythmic chant that must have been Japanese. 

It was infectious music, loose and groovy, where Power Station were tight and constrained, and also very highly danceable. I was already swaying back and forth, and even Flori was tapping his foot and moving his shoulders in time with the sharp snap of the snare drum.

>>Come on, come and dance with me<< I urged, pulling him to his feet.

<No, no, I am not much of a dancer>.> Flori protested, even as his hips were belying him.

>>Yes you are, I've seen you<< I insisted, perking up as the drums hit a familiar shuffling pattern, the bass hopping across the octave as a guitar scratched out an insect drone. I knew this song! <In fact, I have seen you dance to this very song, remember? Back at the Creamcheese Club, the night we met.<<

Flori laughed and put his hands gently on my shoulders, pulling me about in a lazy circle as Damo kneeled on the floor and started singing his exhortations to Mother Sky. >>This is true.<<

A young man standing near us saw Flori dancing, then did an almost comical double-take, before staring at us. It took him a few minutes to pull together the courage to approach us, before tapping Flori on the shoulder and asking >>Hey man, aren't you in Power Station?<<

Flori shrugged, clearly embarrassed, but nodded. It was the first time it had happened, when I was out with one of the boys, and I felt my heart swell with pride.

>>Aw, man, I saw you guys play here a couple of months ago. Loved you guys.<< From out of nowhere, the fan seemed to produce a smouldering joint and handed it to Flori. >>Please take it, as a token of my thanks...<<

Grinning maniacally, Flori took a puff, but soon realised that the gargantuan spliff was far too much for him. >>I can't finish this<< he protested, trying to give it back, but the young man gestured towards the stage.

>>You can share it with them.<<

I had a sudden memory of Evamaria, as Flori strode up onto the stage area, and offered the monster to Holger, who nodded and parted his lips to accept it, though he did not let go of his bass for a moment. As Flori went round the band like a priest with communion, I went up to the bar and got myself another gin.

When I returned, Flori was standing by the side of the stage. >>I wish I had brought my flute.<<

>>So do we!<< called back the keyboard player. It was just such a wonderful atmosphere, full of friendship and amity, musicians and audience moving closer together as the groove grew more intense. People were clapping along, dancing, stamping their feet, the whole room moving as one.

>>Come on, back to dancing!<< shouted Flori in my ear. >>I want to do the snake-dancing with you again!<<

I swallowed my gin quickly and joined him on the floor, laughing as he twisted his arms with mine. Flori was an unusual dancer, his head very straight, his carriage very erect, but his movements were very fluid, very precise, as he leapt about in a circle, waggling his arms. Unlike Ralf, who typically danced by standing with his legs wide, batting his hips about aggressively, there was something rather feminine about the way that Flori surrendered himself to the dance. Mr Yin, Holger had called him in jest, the shadowy, mysterious complement to Ralf's domineering Yang, but it oddly suited him. The music was swelling to a crescendo as Damo was standing on top of a speaker stack, stripped down to his pants, his long hair flying everywhere as he screamed inchoately into the microphone. Everyone in the audience knew exactly what he meant, thought - _dance harder, you fuckers_!

Flori and I were spinning giddily in circles as the music collapsed around us, Holger dropping the beat by accident before coming back in at half speed. Jaki laughed and pointed one drumstick at him as he caught the new rhythm with the other on his hi-hat. As the groove changed again, Flori dropped his hands to my hips, pulling me closer as the band dropped back to a slow waltz. Someone handed Flori another joint, and without thinking, I took it from him and inhaled, before handing it over to Jaki, holding it against his mouth for him to inhale. When he was done, Jaki laughed and gestured with his chin to a bottle of London Dry Gin by his foot. >>Go on, Englisher!<<

I winked my thanks and took the bottle and raised it to my mouth, hungrily trying to wash away the awful parched feeling that the smoke had left in my mouth. Flori took the bottle away from me, and placed it back my Jaki's foot, before pulling me back towards him and crushing me against his chest. >>Stop it, no more mischief<< he warned, trying hard to be solemn, though I could see his eyes sparkling with mirth. >>I'm not gonna be the one explaining it to Ralf if you run off with the drummer from The Can.<<

>>No chance<< I laughed back, resting my head against his chest, hearing but also feeling how his heart was racing with the music. He was thin, but very broad, and it pleased me that he was just the right amount taller than me that I could lean my head against him as we danced.

Flori put his arms around me, and raised his hands to touch me, rubbing his hand back and forth gently across the small of my back. It took me a moment to realise he was only distracted by the feel of my velvet jacket against his palm, and I relaxed. For a moment, I felt a stab of guilt - oh fuck, what if someone I knew saw us, and carried tales back to Ralf - but then I realised. It didn't matter; I didn't know a soul in Köln. Well, apart from the band. Oh shit, the band. Holger was good friends with Ralf, I knew that. Guiltily, I raised my head from Flori's chest and pulled away slightly, so that there was about an inch between our swaying hips.

But slowly and surely, the song started to gather speed, changing from 3/4 to 7/4 before finally settling into that driving 4/4 beat that Klaus loved so much. As the song picked up momentum, we danced faster, and centrifugal force flung our bodies apart, Flori taking me by the hands and spinning me. Everyone was into it, the whole audience eating out of Damo's hand as he exhorted us to come with them on the roller coaster ride as the music plunged and surged with wild abandon.

Flori's face was giddy with pure delight, grinning wildly a we danced. >>I have never been much of a dancer before<< he shouted in my ear as we spun. >>But I love dancing with you. You make it so much fun.<<

>>Dancing is the next best thing to flying<< I shouted back.

>>Some day, you'll have to teach me to fly.<<

The Can played until well after midnight - Flori was wise not to risk the train - until the staff of the club turned the lights on, and started threatening to cut the power if they didn't stop. The bar had closed long ago, but everyone just wanted to carry on dancing. A deep sigh of regret went round the room as Jaki finally stood up, tossed his drumsticks across the room, and walked off, cradling what was left of the bottle of London Dry Gin in his arms. People were drifting into small clumps as the musicians started to pack up, even as Damo kept insisting that everyone should come back to his place and continue the party.

Holger walked up to us and clapped Flori on the back. >>What do you think, old man? Do you want to come to the party? You're welcome to stay over if you don't want to drive home tonight. I'm sure we can find you a couple of beds... unless of course you _want_ only one bed? << The light in his eyes made it plain that he had noticed the subtle flirtation, and for a moment I wavered.

I realised, at that moment, as Flori and I stood together, our hips still touching, me leaning against him slightly, and his arm lightly dropped around my shoulder, that Holger thought we were having an affair. I wasn't sure what he was offering - a trysting place, his silence, or even his complicity - but for the first time, I realised that this was a thing that could happen. A dangerous thing. I knew, if Flori and I went back to Holger's, that we would end up in that one bed together. And though I trusted Flori implicitly, I didn't trust myself.

I peeled away from Flori slightly, righting myself as I stared defiantly at Holger wanting to tell him, no, thank you very much, but no. You've got this wrong.

Flori must have felt me tense beside him, as he shook his head quickly and drew himself up to his full height. >>No. Thank you, that is very kind. But I have borrowed Ralf's car - as well as his missus - only for the evening. There will be trouble if both are not returned to their rightful place before morning.<<

Holger smiled and made a sort of _you don't fool me_ face, but then shrugged.  >>You'd best be off, then. Lovely to see you, thank you so much for coming. Let us know when Power Station are going to come back and play with us again and we'll set up some gigs, ja?<<

>>No, thank you for playing<< Flori said as they exchanged the usual musician compliments.

>>Yes, it was wonderful<< I echoed. >>All of the art students in Düsseldorf have been singing your praises for ages, and now I know why.<<

>>You're too kind. Until next time<< said Holger, and we walked off.

I had thought I would feel tired, especially after all that dancing, but my head was jangling and strange. The spliff I had accidentally smoked was making me nervous and tense, despite the soporific effect of the gin. Flori went backstage and fetched his coat - dammit, I should have brought the thick wool jacket after all - and we headed out into the night.

Holy Mary, mother of god, it was cold! My teeth chattered as the wind hit me, cursing the stupid decision to wear the completely inadequate velvet jacket. Flori grit his teeth, then looked over at me, and opened his coat to pull me inside as we walked the few blocks to the car.

Shivering, my teeth chattering, I spotted that I had left the passenger door unlocked, so I climbed inside and tried to warm myself. Flori tutted his disapproval as he unlocked the driver's side. >>One of these days<< he warned solemnly, nodding at the lock. >>We'll come back and your side of the car won't be here.<<

>>Stop it, it's too cold to laugh<< I chattered, rubbing my hands together and blowing on them.

>>Yes, my goodness it is too cold! But don't worry, I'll get us home quickly.<< he said softly.

But the engine didn't want to start - Flori switched on the ignition, and it turned over once, twice, then shuddered to a halt. The third time, it caught, as he kept the key turned all the way in, as he engaged the clutch and gunned the accelerator at the same time. The car shuddered, coughed as if protesting the cold, and came to life.

>>Oh, thank fuck<< I muttered, and scrabbled at the dashboard, trying to turn the heating up all the way, rubbing my hands together as the vents only pumped out cold air.

>>Oh, the hell with it, turn it off, we'll just get going. We'll probably be back in Düsseldorf before the damned heat in this thing comes on<< swore Flori.

He pulled carelessly out into the road without checking for oncoming traffic again, before I had a chance to grab hold of the door handle, but I was too cold and my teeth were chattering too hard to tell him to be more careful. The car sputtered, and the engine started knocking a bit, but he swore again, and gunned the engine, and it kept going. The damned thing stalled at a traffic light, and Flori nearly flooded the engine getting it going again, but at last it shuddered back to life.

>>It'll be fine once we get on the freeway<< Flori assured me, even as the whole car started to shake. >>It's all the stopping and starting she doesn't like.<<

I turned up the collar of my velvet jacket and thrust my fingers into my armpits to keep them from freezing off, though I could only do this one hand at a time, as the other had to hold onto the door handle to keep from being flung about every time we went round a corner.

But the shuddering did not stop once we were on the Autobahn. In fact, at high speed, the shuddering grew more alarming, and the knocking and rattling started up in the engine again. Flori was muttering, gripping the steering wheel tightly, sounding a bit like Damo as he urged the car on, as we sailed past the sign for the Köln city limits. There was a thin ribbon of suburbs pretending to be countryside between Köln and Düsseldorf, and it had grown quite dark between the motorway's flood lights.

And of course, it was in one of those dark patches that the sputtering whir of the engine finally cut out. >>No!<< shouted Florian as silence descended over the car. >>No, don't you dare! Stop it this instant!<< He gunned the accelerator, but nothing happened, the car slowly coasting down a gentle gradient, but it was definitely decelerating. >>Come on, you little Bug<< he cried, fiddling with the ignition, but nothing happened except a horrible, whining noise like a dying cat. >>Please?<< he begged, but it was no good. The car was coasting to a stop as he pulled it over to the side of the road. >>Please start?<< he asked, patting the dashboard gently before twirling the ignition and gunning the accelerator again. There was no response but an awful petroleum smell. When the acrid tang of smoke joined it, he pulled back sharply and lifted hands and feet from the controls.

>>This fucking car!<< I howled, realising what was happening. We were stranded, halfway between the two cities, and the road, at just past one in the morning, was deserted. >>I swear to god, this fucking car fucking hates me.<<

>>I think she's jealous of you. She was Ralf's great love until you came along<< quipped Flori, patting the dashboard carefully, as if tenderness would succeed where threats had failed. >>Please, little car. Please start...<< He tired the ignition again, but the whining sound grew worse, as did the tang of smoke. Finally, he gave up, and climbed out of the car, moving round the front and opening the bonnet. For a moment, I saw him just standing there, and scratching his head, but then he stuck his head back in through the door. >>Zhan, I think I've found the problem. We've lost our engine.<<

I nearly burst out laughing, despite the seriousness of the situation. >>You cabbage-head. It's in the back<< I giggled, pointing my thumb over my shoulder.

>>Ah<< said Flori, and nodded, grinning as if he had intended to make a joke with me, but then he walked around to the rear of the vehicle. I heard the swearing about the same time as I saw the mushroom cloud of black smoke in the rear-view mirror. >>Shit!<< he shouted. >>Shit, fuck, whore-piss, son of a...<< There followed a stream of German words I had never even heard before and did not dare to guess at the meaning. >>Zhan<< he said desperately as his head reappeared at the window. >>I know you said you used to fix planes' engines. Are you any good with Volkswagens?<<

>>I have no idea, but give me your coat if you want me to go out there.<< To my surprise, he did as I asked, shedding the huge camel-hair coat and handing to me, taking my place in the passenger seat as I wrapped it around me. It hung down to the floor, and came past my knuckles, but for the first time since we'd left the Kino, I was actually warm. I pushed the sleeves up, and crouched down to examine the engine compartment of the small VW, but as soon as I got there, I realised it was no use. We were too far from the last floodlight, and the one just ahead of us was casting deep shadows to the point where I could not even tell fan-belt from spark-plug. I went back to the window, and knocked. >>Does he have a torch in the car?<<

Flori unwrapped his arms from where he was hugging himself to keep warm, and dug through the glove compartment. >>I thought he did, but... Oh shit. No. He brought it in to the workshop to look into the circuits when we took the Hammond apart, and I don't think he put it back.<<

>>We're fucked<< I said, looking up and down the motorway for help, but the road was deserted. There weren't even any lights showing off in the countryside by the side of the road.

>>I don't think we're that far from Langenfeld, to be honest<< Flori ventured. >>But in the dark I don't know if we can find the way... and we only have one coat. I'm not leaving you alone out here at this time of night.<<

>>What do we do?<< I moaned, stamping my feet as much to express my annoyance as to keep warm.

>>It's only 4 or 5 hours until it gets light. When it gets light, I'll walk for help.<< Flori offered. >>Now can I please have my coat back? Or at least give me your velvet jacket. I'm freezing in just my shirt.<<

>>Look<< I said, trying to think on my feet. >>Get in the back of the car.<<

Flori did as he was asked, though he looked at the coat piteously as he climbed out to tip his seat forward and climb behind it. >>It's not any warmer back here<< he complained.

>>No, but we can sit next to each other back here<< I said, remembering the way that Myrthe and I had spread her sleeping bag over our knees on the long drive back from Forst. >>And spread the coat over both of us.<< I took off the coat then climbed in beside him. Pulling the door closed behind me, I snuggled up against him for warmth, pulling the camel-hair coat up to our chins like a blanket.

>>Oh this is cosy<< claimed Flori, putting his arm around me and pulling me even closer. >>You are like a hot water bottle. Are all the English so warm-blooded?<<

I wasn't really in the mood to be teased. >>What time is it? When does the sun come up? It's November, it will be late, won't it<< I peered into the front of the car to check the clock, but the dashboard was dark.

>>About 6.30 or 7, I should think<< Flori's fingers were working against the side of my waist as he spoke, but I realised it was only the nap of the velvet that he found intriguing. >>You can go to sleep if you want.<<

>>I'm too wired to sleep.<< I was, also, suddenly very aware of the maleness of him, next to me in the car, the solidity of his chest, the faint scent of his sweat, the slight burr of his stubble where my head rested against his neck. How had we slipped so close? Then again, it was too cold not to be. But he was moving his head slightly, as if rubbing his face back and forth against my hair. The sensation was oddly erotic, like someone running their fingers through it.

He inhaled deeply, then sighed. >>You always smell so good. What shampoo do you use?<<

>>Just Johnson's baby shampoo. It doesn't smell of anything<< I offered limply.

A slight shudder went through him. Just the cold, obviously. >>Then it is just you that smells so good.<<

The words just hung there in the air for a few minutes, before I decided to just accept them as a compliment. >>I like the smell of your aftershave, too.<<

>>It's Weleda<< supplied Flori, completely without guile. We were both silent for a few minutes, listening to the sound of our breathing as it synchronised. The only other sound in the world was the faint whistle of the wind around the contours of the car. >>Are you warm?<< he finally said.

>>My legs are still a bit cold<< I confessed, as there was a gap of about a foot between the end of his coat and the start of my suede boots.

>>Bring them here, put them up on me<< he offered. For a moment, I considered the wisdom of this, but then decided I was so cold I didn't really care, and let him pull my shins up onto his lap. >>Oh yes, this is better for me, too. You are very warm, like an extra blanket.<< But he did not remove his hands, rubbing his fingers gently up and down the slick fabric of my trousers. >>What is this stuff?<< he finally asked, as I felt tiny rivulets of _wanting_ start to run up my legs from where he touched me.  >>It feels extraordinary. Very tactile.<<

>>It's satin<< I said nervously, wondering if there was a way to ask him to stop without highlighting the odd inappropriateness of his actions in the first place. It was much warmer with my legs on his lap, and I did not want to destroy the peacefulness with awkwardness. >>These trousers are slightly too big for me, but I love the fabric so much. And the colour.<<

>>The colour is amazing<< Flori agreed, perfectly reasonably. >>I adore orange. Could you not adjust them? Or Silke?<<

>>I suppose I could<< I said, very quietly, as the feeling of his fingers against the seam became almost too much to bear. The hand moved lower, down my calf, as if exploring, until it hit the line of my boot, and his fingers searched beneath.

>>And this... It feels lovely... So soft.<<

"Suede" I said, in English, unsure of the German.

"Wildleder" he supplied, moving his fingers lower until they encircled my ankle. >>I have a coat, of this stuff.<< Round and round, both sets of fingers went, one tracing circles in the suede, the other still tormenting the nap of the velvet. >>You always _feel_ so nice. So tactile. I suppose this is your textile training. <<

He had turned towards me in the dark, his face so close to mine. Even in the depths of the back seat, his eyes were so light they seemed to shine, catching whatever light there was and reflecting it back, two silvery holes in the shadows of his face. I could feel his breath, warm on my cheek, and worried that I stank of gin. And yet, still, he did not look away, those silvery eyes boring into mine, his expression completely unreadable. His lips seemed to move, and for a moment, I thought he was going to speak, but no. No breath came with the movement, he was just moving his lips, almost imperceptibly, closer to mine. Without realising it, I tilted my head forward, millimetre by millimetre, each of us bridging the gap. Flesh touched flesh, and I expected something, a blast of static, an electric shock, but there was only the soft warmth of skin against skin. For a long moment, almost too long, we stayed like that, both of us just sitting there, as if neither of us daring to believe we were really touching.

_He doesn't like kissing_. The thought blazed itself through my mind. He hated it, thought it undignified, gross. He had told me so himself. And yet slowly, as if barely aware of what he was doing, his lip started to move against mine, rubbing. Then his mouth parted slightly, his two lips engulfing my lower lip, taking it between his, and just ever so gently, gingerly, playing with it, rubbing it between as if I were a morsel of food he was not sure was truly edible. I no longer felt cold. I no longer felt anything except for those tiny centimetres of skin where our mouths were touching. His left hand left my ankle, and came around, touching the side of my head, caressing my cheek before sliding up into my hair, his fingers working against the short, velvety strands, just another tactile texture.

The pressure on my lips increased. He was sucking my lip between his. I felt the moisture of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue, and then suddenly we were kissing in earnest. His skin against mine. The stubble of his beard coming in. The faint hard raised lump of the mole on his cheek. His mouth, warm, and soft, and now I felt like there was electricity coursing through my body; now I felt like I was on fire. As he sucked my tongue into his mouth, he worked on it with teeth and tongue and lips and his fingers clasped the back of my head, pulling me towards him as if he wanted to eat me alive. I felt that I was simply going to die if I did not get all of him. I raised my hands, touched the fine wire of his hair, tangled my fingers in it, touched his neck, his ears, the hard muscles of his shoulders. We kissed and kissed. I could not get enough of him, his mouth against mine, noses mashed together, skin growing slick with saliva and sweat.

BANG! BANG! BANG! A sharp rap came against the glass of the window, and a bright light shining into the car.

We shot apart, staring at one another for an eternal instant, half in horror, half in wonder, before both of us turned guiltily to the window to the dark figure peering in.


	21. Dude, wo ist mein Auto?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan and Florian's kiss is interrupted before it can go any further. But can they keep the truth from Ralf? By the time of Power Station's record release party, it may be time to face the music.

>>Hey! Kids! You can't neck here. This is a public highway.<< A deep voice, guttural, with an air of authority to match a badge I saw glinting in the torchlight. >>Move on, this is not a safe place for you to make out.<<

Blinking, shaking his head, Flori pulled himself back together as he rolled down the window and addressed the policeman outside. >>I"m sorry, officer. We would love to move on, but you see. We have had a breakdown. The car will not move.<<

>>Breakdown huh.<< The light left the window as the policeman moved around to the back. I could see him through the rear window, peering at the engine. >>Oh Christ, what a mess. Oil dripping everywhere...<<

Throwing me a helpless look, Flori took the coat from on top of me and threw it round his shoulders, opening the door and stepping outside to remonstrate with the officer. >>You have a radio, yes? Can you call for a tow-truck? Take us back to Düsseldorf?<<

>>At this hour?<< The policeman looked doubtful. >>Ah, hell, kid. Let me see your drivers license and registration. I'll see what I can do.<<

Flori's head reappeared in the door as he dug through the glove compartment for the necessary papers - those, at least, Ralf had had the foresight to leave in the car. Then he dug out his wallet and handed the necessary documents over. The policeman studied them intently in the light of his torch.

>>Schneider-Esleben. Why do I know that name?<<

Shrugging with embarrassment, Flori's shoulders went up around his ears again. >>You probably have heard of my father. He is quite successful.<<

>>Rich kid, huh<< whistled the policeman. >>Still, I guess that means you can afford the all-night tow-truck. I'll radio it in.<<

Grinning as if to cover his shame, Flori returned to the car and tipped the front seat to its normal position before climbing into it. He turned around and looked at me apologetically, though I noticed he did not offer me his coat, or attempt to sit next to me. Were we even going to mention what had just been interrupted?

Apparently not. >>Well. It seems my father is good for something - it is his name that is getting us a tow-truck.<<

>>I know. I heard.<< I said.

>>They can tow us back to the Berger Allee, and put the car back where we found it, and no one will be the wiser about anything<< he said, as if it were possible to roll back time, and make the entire evening not have happened.

>>Flori<< I said sharply. >>As if Ralf won't notice that his engine has blown up, and is dripping oil all over the highway!<<

Flori's face kind of crumpled in upon itself, as he chewed at his lip, then finally, he put his face into his hands and rubbed his eyes wearily. >>No, you are right. We will have to have it towed back to the VW repair garage. I will pay for it, but...<< His eyes were helpless. >>Oh god, then he will know. He will know everything...<<

Reaching out, I touched the side of his face gently, felt his stubble, the hard nub of his mole. >>Flori...<<

>>No. Don't. Please.<< He took my hand in his, kissed it tenderly, then folded my fingers and pushed it away from him. >>I know. This is madness. It is wrong. You love Ralf... As do I.<<

>>I...<< I opened my mouth to speak, to confess all. _I don't love Ralf, and I never will. I love you. I have always loved you. It's you I love, you I want, I have known, since the first time I saw you dancing to Mother Sky_...

But again came the sharp rap on the window. >>Excuse me, son, but I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car. Now.<<

Flori's face went completely pale, even as he turned to open the door. >>Yes of course. What is it?<<

>>Nice and slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.<< Flori held his hands in the air, looking oddly like a Chicago gangster in the long coat.

>>I'm sorry, officer, but what is the problem?<< Flori asked, in as reasonable a voice as he could muster under the circumstances.

>>This car<< said the policeman, his voice loaded with suspicion. >>Is not registered to you.<<

>>No, you're right. The car belongs to Ralf Hütter, my best friend, my business associate, and also my housemate.<<

>>OK, so you know the guy. But. Housemate? The car is registered in Krefeld. You live in Golzheim. That's a bit of a stretch.<<

>>No<< said Flori, still keeping his voice very even and flat. >>Ralf's father lives in Krefeld, my father lives in Golzheim. The two of us both live on the Berger Allee, at number 9. We have only student digs there, this is why we have not changed the official documents.<<

>>Give me the telephone number, if you please. If I ring this house on the Berger Allee, will Herr Hütter confirm this himself?<<

>>I am sorry, but Herr Hütter is not there, at this moment. He is away, hence why we have his car.<<

>>Does Herr Hütter actually know you have his car?<<

A long exhale of breath from Flori. >>No. Herr Hütter went to Aachen for the evening to take an entrance examination for the School of Architecture there.<<

>>So while you he's away, you took it upon yourself to take your girlfriend on a joyride down to Köln in his car. Is that it?<<

>>Not precisely.<< I heard Flori swallow nervously. >>While Herr Hütter was away, I took it upon myself to take _Herr Hütter'_ s girlfriend down to Köln for a concert. So you see my difficulty, yes?<<

>>Ah.<< The torch swung around, shining into the car to illuminate me again, and I winced, squinting against the light. >>Would you mind stepping out of the car, Fraulein?<< Clutching my little velvet jacket about me, I stepped out of the car, shivering against the cold. >>Is this true? Is this Ralf Hütter that owns the vehicle your boyfriend?<<

>>Yes<< I hissed through chattering teeth. >>I am Ralf's girlfriend.<< At that moment, I wished to god that I was not.

>>And where do you live?<<

I panicked, thinking of how I could face expulsion if I brought the school into disrepute, and blurted out the first lie I could think of. >>Number 9, on the Berger Allee.<<

For a moment, the policeman looked back and forth between us. He was much younger than I was expecting, from the voice. But slowly, as Flori and I squirmed, the man's belly started heaving, and then he burst out into peels of laughter. >>I can't believe this. You crazy hippie kids. Oh, this is too rich. You know what? I'm going to call the tow truck. And when it's taken the car away, I'm going to drive you two back to the Berger Allee. And I'm going to write a traffic violation ticket for Reckless Endangerment, for necking on a public highway. Not because I think that the 50 DM fine will make the slightest dent in the Schneider-Esleben family's fortune, but because your real punishment, kid, will be explaining to your best friend, and housemate, how you, the car, and the pretty girlfriend all came to be on a grassy verge in Langenfeld, kissing in the middle of the night. That is a conversation i would just _love_ to see a spoiled rich kid like you have to have. <<

Flori smiled weakly, though he still would not meet my eye. >>Thank you, officer, that seems most reasonable.<<

The ride back to Düsseldorf was the most miserable I had ever been in my entire life. Flori and I both sat, at opposite ends of the police car's back seat, trying hard not to touch, refusing to even look at one another, and generally feeling lower than dirt. The policeman dropped us off, then sat, for twenty minutes, in the alleyway outside, probably just filling out paperwork, but in my mind, I was convinced he was keeping us under surveillance just in case Ralf came home, and he got to see the fireworks.

But finally, after what seemed an age, he pulled out, turned around, and drove off back down towards the South. With a great sigh, I picked up my bag and walked towards the door.

>>Where do you think you're going?<< demanded Florian.

>>Back to my dormitory<< I muttered, hanging my head in shame.

>>At this time of night?<< he said, and I stopped in my tracks, and stared at him. He was right. I had closed and locked the window behind me. And the guard would never let me in at this hour. >>No<< he insisted, and I saw his eyes harden. >>You're not leaving me here to face this alone. You're going to be here when Ralf gets in. And you're going to explain to him that the policeman is lying, and nothing happened, and Holger will back us up.<<

>>You want to pretend that nothing happened?<<

>>But nothing did happen<< he insisted.

>>But something _did_ happen! << I almost howled.

>>Yes. You're right.<< His mouth, a grim line, softened slightly as his eyes flashed. >>You did manage to convince me that kissing and cuddling can be OK, can be enjoyable, in fact, kissing can be quite _nice_ , as nice as dancing, really. But do you want to tell Ralf that, or shall I?<<

I turned away, feeling like I was going to throw up. I did not love Ralf, but I did not want to hurt him that badly. >>I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed.<<

>>Me, too<< said Florian. >>But I'm locking my door. And you, please, lock yours.<<

I did not sleep well. I tossed and turned all night, unable to get comfortable, and the smell of Ralf in our bed somehow seemed to irritate me. But when I did finally get to sleep, the dreams were worse. In my dreams, I wasn't just kissing Florian in the back of the Volkswagen, I was full-on fucking him, with a passion and an urgency I had not felt since the forest-party. And the tap at the window was not a policeman, it was Ralf, in his leather trousers and motorcycle jacket, with huge pistols hanging from his belt, rapping at the windows until the glass broke and shattered into the car in a million murderous knife-crystals. I woke sweating several times, and once I even got up, walking to the door, convinced that someone was breathing on the other side of it, but I was too afraid to open it.

When the dawn came, I had barely slept at all. I heard the front door slam, heard Emil go out, whistling, headed for the Kunstakademie to teach his Freshman Life Drawing class, but Florian's door did not move. Finally, when I could stand it no more, I climbed from the bed and dressed, all in black, in black jeans, another of Ralf's black turtlenecks, and a black zip-up jacket, also Ralf's. As I padded to the bathroom, I heard someone shuffling around in the kitchen. When I padded back, it was quiet, so I risked it, and slipped in to make coffee.

Bad idea. Florian sat at the kitchen table, staring at his cup of coffee, looking like he hadn't slept a wink, either. His hair was unkempt, and there were dark circles under his eyes. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat opposite him, but neither of us spoke. I thought of a dozen things to say - _I love you. I need you. Look, this is real. Forget about Ralf, let's run away. Please, dear god, take me in your arms and kiss me like you kissed me last night._ \- but dismissed all of them as wretched fantasies. Florian kept his face as blank as a mask, and said nothing.

The front door slammed again, and I jumped. Perhaps it was only Emil, having forgotten something... But no. Steps tramped up the hall, stomped into Ralf's bedroom to throw something heavy on the bed, then stomped into the kitchen.

Ralf's face was like a storm cloud. >>Where<< he demanded, almost completely out of breath. >>In hell. Is my car?<<

>>Wait, Ralf...> protested Florian. >>Don't be angry...<<

>>Where is it, Flori? Where the fuck is my car? Claudia dropped me at the end of the street, and I walked past the spot where I left it - I walked up and down the street _twice_. It's not anywhere on the street, and it's not in the parking lot down on the river front either. So where the hell is it, Flori? <<

>>Calm down, Ralf, it was only a little accident... nobody was hurt...<< continued Florian, trying to pacify him.

>> _Accident_? What the hell? Flori, what did you do to my _car_? << I realised, as he ranted, that I had never actually seen Ralf properly angry before. And it scared me a little, not how angry he was, but that he didn't seem to give a damn about Flori or I, he just cared about his machine.

>>It was not a serious problem. The engine... a cloud of black smoke... I don't know. It stalled and it just wouldn't start again. It's at the mechanic's now, I will pay for any repairs...<<

>>Did you cold start my engine, Flori? It was freezing fucking cold last night, even in Aachen. Did you try to drive my car without letting the engine warm up first? How many times do I have to fucking tell you...<<

>>I am sorry. I forgot.<< Florian said, very quietly, his shoulders hunched, as he looked down into his coffee.

>>Where the fuck is? You said it's at a mechanic's - which one? If you have hurt my car in any way, I swear to god, Flori...<<

>>It's at the garage you always use. I told the police to take it there and leave a note saying that you would call them when you got home from Aachen...<<

Ralf didn't even wait for the rest of the sentence. He didn't go to the phone, either. He spun on his heels, grabbed his heavy coat and turned and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

For about fifteen seconds, we just stared at each other, my eyes searching his, but finding only pain and confusion. And then suddenly, Flori leapt to his feet, seized his coat from the back of a chair, and went running off down the hall. I heard the front door open again. >>Ralf! Ralf, wait. I'll come with you. I should be there, I should pay for this.<< The front door slammed again, and I was alone.

I wanted to throw something. I wanted to smash all of the crockery in the kitchen to pieces, and grind them into the floor with the heels of my boots. But instead, I went back to Ralf's room, packed up my things the best I could, and carried them back to my dormitory room. Thankfully, both Myrthe and Michael were out, so I kicked off my boots, lay down in my bed, and had a good cry.

How could things have gone so wrong? In 24 hours, I seemed to have gone from having my wildest dreams almost realised, to seeing everything smashed to bits in front of me. How was I supposed to go back and put up with Ralf's insipid kisses, knowing that Florian's tongue and mouth could make me feel like _that_? And yet, I knew, Ralf and Florian were so close, and Flori was so loyal, that nothing in the world would ever convince him to repeat the event.

I lay there until Myrthe came in - by herself, thankfully - and turned the light on. --Jan, what are you doing here?--

\--I live here, remember?-- I sat up, rubbing my eyes. --Where's Michael?--

\--Gone to rehearsal, of course... Ralf is very nervous about the big day, tomorrow. Do you want to get dinner?--

\--No thanks, I'm not hungry.-- I hadn't eaten all day, but the thought of food revolted me.

\--Jan, are you alright?--

For a moment, I actually considered telling her. I snuck away to Köln with Flori, we danced all night, and then we snogged in the car on the way home. I am in love with Flori, and I want to dump my boyfriend for him, but that boyfriend is holding a very important party the day after tomorrow, and Flori will do nothing at all to upset him. But then I realised. Myrthe and Michael shared everything now. If I told Myrthe, I told Michael. And if I told Michael, the whole damn band would know. --I'm fine-- I lied. --I'm just nervous, about the exams, about the design show, about everything.--

\--Good lord, if you're nervous and you study so hard... how do you think the rest of us feel? You'll be fine.--

I went to bed early, even as Myrthe sat up, working on finishing the outfit that had been pinned on Marlene for nearly a month. But I was woken by the familiar putt-putt of a Volkswagen engine, followed by a tap on the window. As I sat up, I saw Michael climbing in, pulling up his guitar after him. I ducked down quickly, praying no one outside had seen me, then risked a glimpse as the sound diminished. Yes, there it was. At the end of the road, I could see a light grey Beetle driving away.

>>So the car's alright?<< I asked, terrified.

>>Oh god<< Michael let out a brief chuckle. >>I have not heard the end of the fucking Volkswagen saga tonight. Ralf was just relentless. I don't know how Florian puts up with that kind of constant hassle.<<

>>What did Flori say?<<

Michael shrugged and stowed his guitar case away under the bed. >>You know Flori, he doesn't say anything. He just grins and gets on with it.<<

I lay back, breathing a sigh of relief - or something. So Ralf and Flori were OK again, but now I had to keep up the lie that Flori must have told to keep them that way.

>>Oh, by the way. I spoke to Matti about the loft again. They're actually moving out on the 1st of December if we want to move in a couple of weeks early, but we will have to pay rent for the extra period? What do you think?<<

Before Myrthe could ask how much it was, I cut her off. >>Yes. Yes we do.<<

\----------

Ralf waylaid me as I walked in the door of the Engineering building, almost as if he had been waiting for me. >>Hey. Where were you last night? I missed you<< he said, trying to put his arm around me, though I did my best to shrug off his kiss. >>Oh, sorry, I forgot. You're scared Grundesbach will fail you if he sees you fraternising with the boys.<<

>>Stop it<< I said severely, feeling my whole body tense. So this was it; it was time to face the music. He had to know about the traffic ticket by now. And now my duty was to lie for Flori, to look my boyfriend in the eye and tell him that nothing had happened, when every waking and sleeping moment of my life was consumed with the memory of that kiss.

But Ralf seemed in a playful mood, not cross at all, just horny as usual. >>Come on. No one will see us in here.<< He pulled me off into the stairwell, peering at me from under his grubby glasses. >>Why didn't you stay and wait for me last night?<<

>>You had rehearsal<< I shrugged, putting up with having my neck nuzzled. >>And you and Flori were so cross with one another, I just didn't want to get in the way if you were going to fight.<<

>>Oh, that<< Ralf shrugged, as if he had forgotten the entire matter already. >>Flori apologised, and paid for the repair. The car's OK, so we're OK again. He has promised he won't take my things again without asking.<<

I looked at him, long and hard, waiting for concern that never materialised. But then I realised: clearly Flori must have just paid the ticket without showing it to Ralf. Ralf had never seen the cop's barbed remark about necking in the back of the car. So he had no idea I'd even been in the car. But then again, his utter lack of concern for the driver rather than the motor, that bothered me in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on.

But Ralf's eyes twinkled with mischief. >>Besides, I have some gossip for you...<<

My heart skipped a beat. >>Oh?<<

>>Do you know why Flori went to Köln?<<

>>He went to see The Can<< I said cautiously, still not entirely sure how much Flori had told him. Why hadn't we had the foresight to at least synchronise our stories before he dashed off after Ralf?

>>Just Can<< Ralf corrected testily, despite how everyone had referred to them in Köln. >>Just Can, not The Can. Oh yes, he did. I spoke to Irmin this evening, to confirm their guest list spots for tomorrow's party. And he said that Flori turned up with a mysterious blonde, danced with her all evening, and disappeared immediately after the show to rush her off, rather than going to the after-party to hang out. Did you know that Flori had a secret girlfriend in Köln? Because that sly devil hadn't told me!<< Ralf looked positively devilish with amusement.

I swallowed nervously. >>Are you sure it wasn't just a friend? You know Flori is as asexual as an Amoeba. I'm sure it was completely Platonic.<<

>>Hmmm<< mused Ralf, and kissed me again. My entire body felt tense, like our horrible secret was going to come tumbling out at any moment. Which one was Irmin? There was a keyboard player I hadn't spoken to much; a tall guy with glasses and muttonchop sideburns. Was that Irmin? I couldn't remember if I'd been introduced to an Irmin or not. >>Damn. I was really hoping it was true. He's getting too old to not have a girlfriend. All of us are in relationships except him, now. Did you know Klaus has a mysterious woman he's been seeing?<<

>>Not so mysterious<< I sighed. >>He's been seeing Anni, from our design class. Friend of Claudia's. Nice girl, I like her a lot. Now come on, we're going to be late for class.<<

Ralf looked almost disappointed as he dropped his arms from around me and took my hand to walk up the stairs together. >>How do you know all this?<<

I shrugged, feeling my heart pounding, and not from the exertion of walking up the stairs. >>Feminine intuition?<<

>>Can your feminine intuition tell me how the release party's going to go tomorrow? I didn't think I was going to be, but I'm really nervous. Hey - do you think you would be able to swing by the club early? Like, dinnertime? I could really do with the support.<<

>>I'm sorry, but I promised Silke I'd stop by for a last minute fitting.<<

Ralf pouted petulantly, but then smiled. >>Does that mean you're going to come in a beautiful gown?<<

>>I'm running out of beautiful gowns<< I warned, remembering how Florian had been happy to squire me in old jeans and a turtleneck.

>>Well, you'll just have to get your algorithm to design some more<< he teased, raising my hand to his mouth to kiss, but I snatched it back as Professor Grundesbach appeared in the stairwell above us.

I hid my hand behind my back and smiled at our professor, even as he inclined his head towards us. >>Glad to see such good, German timekeeping from you, Fraulein DeLay. You are learning excellent habits from our studious young Hütter at last.<<

Ralf positively smarmed at me as we followed our professor down the hall to the classroom, and I felt my good humour returning as I slapped him playfully on the back of the head. He pinched me on the waist in return, and I kicked his shin, suddenly overcome by a wave of affection towards him. I knew this wasn't love, not really, but couldn't it be enough to keep us going?

I begged off staying over again that night, claiming that I had my period, and went back to the dormitory. Michael was there, so I went up to Silke's room to see if I could lend a hand with the parade of dresses. Since the "suspension bridge" gown had proved such a success, she was going through the rest of the collection, adding silver wire and the occasional rivet, though in strategic and aesthetic places, as ornament, rather than structural. Even I had to admit, they looked incredible. I borrowed a dress - not one of the collection, as she'd put her foot down, but another, a simple, very old fashioned shift dress in a silvery colour - for the party the next evening. It wasn't really my taste, but it was the kind of thing I knew Ralf would appreciate, with a daring neckline that gave a good glimpse of my non-existent bosom.

Again, I spent the next afternoon at Silke's, doing last-minute adjustments to our project. Then there were no more excuses, and it was time to walk over to the Creamchese club for Power Station's party. I knew the band weren't actually playing live - they were going to play the record through on vinyl, and then Ralf and Flori were going to take turns playing their favourite music - but somehow that made it worse. If there were a gig, I could have just watched them, and not been expected to speak to people.

When we walked in, I was glad it was already quite busy. Not as packed as the first night we'd seen them, as it was still early, but there was a small but respectable crowd gathered round the four of them as they held court by the bar. I walked over to Ralf and kissed him, then walked up to Flori, expecting the usual brief hug and a kiss on the cheek. But Flori actually physically recoiled from me, eyeing me with something approaching fear, and I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. I threw him a pleading glance, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. Ralf put his arm possessively around my waist and pulled me back towards him.

>>Chan, I don't know if you remember Holger...<< he said jauntily.

>>Mrs Yang...<< Holger started to joke, but I cut him off.

>>We've met. Several times<< I insisted, as Holger bent forward to kiss me on the cheek. As his ear was close to mine, I quietly hissed >>Please don't say a word about the other night?<<

But his companions did not hear me, as Jaki stepped forward and clasped his arms about me in greeting. >>Jan! How wonderful to see you again so soon. May I buy you another gin, for old times' sake?<<

Ralf frowned, confused. >>Have you two met before?<<

I tried to step into the gap. throwing a warning glance at Jaki. >>They played here a few months ago, remember? A week or so before I met you.<<

But Jaki completely missed the pointed diversion, pouting with his beautiful mouth. >>You weren't at that gig. I would have remembered if _your_ face had been there. Wednesday in Köln was the first time I saw you, no lie. <<

Ralf looked back and forth between us as all the colour drained out of my face. >>Wait<< he said quietly. >> _You_ were in Köln on Wednesday? With Flori? <<

>>Yes<< I replied, not sure if I should drag him away from the small group of friends to avoid making a scene, or if I should shrug and try to use their presence to change the conversation.

>>Yes, this is the girl<< said Irmin, very obviously the tall one with the glasses and the sideburns now. >>The mysterious blonde who was dancing with Flori all night.<<

As Ralf's face darkened, I felt myself grasping at straws. >>I told you that the woman dancing with Flori was innocent. I told you it was Platonic. You know Flori is not interested in sex.<<

>>Excuse us a minute<< barked Ralf, seizing me by the wrist and dragging me away, into a small room backstage. I teetered after him, barely able to balance on my stupid shoes. >>You were in Köln. You?<<

>>Yes, I just told you.<< I decided to keep my statements simple.

>>And you didn't tell me earlier... why?<< he demanded.

>>Because you were so angry about the car, you didn't give me a chance to!<<

Ralf had to swallow the blame for that one, looking very cross about it indeed. >>So you just went to Köln, with Florian, when I wasn't there?<<

>>Florian is my friend. I wasn't aware I wasn't allowed to spend time with him.<<

>>You could have asked.<<

>>How?<< I snapped. >>You were away!<<

But Ralf didn't even hear me. >>Hell, _he_ could have asked. <<

>>What, he needs to ask your permission to borrow me, like he needs to ask permission to borrow your car? Ralf, I am not your possession.<<

>>You are my _girlfriend_. << he insisted, as if that settled the matter.

>>Well, maybe I shouldn't be!<< I hurled back without thinking.

He whirled around to face me, his eyes flashing as if he wanted to strike me, but fortunately, at that exact moment, Klaus came bumbling through the door. >>Ralf? Someone from Phillips is here. They want to congratulate the man of the hour.<<

Ralf tried to rapidly regain composure, smoothing his hair back, then pushing his glasses back up his nose with his other hand. >>Yes, of course. Just give me a minute.<<

Klaus looked back and forth between us, noting the flushed tone of our faces and the fury in our eyes, and wisely decided to withdraw. >>I'll have Flori stall them for a few minutes.<<

>>This is<< he said, his voice tightly restrained >>quite possibly the single most important night of my life so far. Do you think you could manage to avoid causing a scene?<<

I bit my lip as I stared back at him resentfully. I was not the one who had caused this scene, but I knew better than to throw that back at him.

>>We are going to go out there, and I am going to greet the man from our record label, and you are going to do your best impression of an adoring girlfriend, and we will have our fight about Köln and the car tomorrow, after we get home.<<

I did not intend on fighting over his stupid bloody car at any point, but instead of saying that, I put on a very false smile and nodded in a fashion I hoped looked bright instead of defiant. Together, hand in hand, we walked back out into the club. Ralf shook hands with the man from the record company and introduced me, but his name didn't stick. I stood to the right, and slightly behind Ralf, my mouth smiling but my eyes plainly furious.

As the opening sequence of Ruckzuck rang out across the club, Ralf pulled himself up to his full height and smiled proudly at his assembled audience, and I started to sway back and forth as if I were about to dance, but actually I was trying to back slowly away from him before I was tempted to actually slap him. But by the end of Ruckzuck and the beginning of Stratovarius, someone was standing beside me, whispering into my ear. I smelled the faint whiff of herbal aftershave before I even heard the voice. >>What did you tell him?<< Flori. So he was speaking to me again.

I spoke out of the corner of my mouth, without even turning to look at him. >>I told him the truth. That I went with you to Köln. That we danced, but it was Platonic.<<

>>What did he say?<< Flori, too, was pretending to look nonchalant, as if wary of being overlooked.

>>He was furious.<<

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Flori contorting himself into a strange twisted shape, rubbing the back of his own neck, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle behind his head. >>Are you alright?<< His voice cracked as he asked, and my heart broke, though for me or for him, I wasn't sure. Flori, so odd, so awkward, and yet always so compassionate. If Ralf had crashed _his_ father's Mercedes with me in the passenger seat, I knew he would have asked my health before that of the car.

>>I've been worse.<<

>>Maybe we should just tell him about the kiss.<< Flori's voice was so tight I actually turned around to look at him. His light eyes looked so vulnerable.

>>After the way he reacted over the car? Do you have an actual wish-for-death.<<

It was like Flori couldn't help himself, he just couldn't help smirking. >>Your German is so cute. Deathwish. Not wish-of-death. Though I like wish-for-death...<< But then he grew serious again. >>How did he find out?<<

>>Fucking Jaki. Ugh! I should have known better than to trust anyone from Köln. Why did I...<< I had to switch to English to swear properly. "Oh, sod it. Screw Jaki."

>>Well why not. Everyone else has.<< He said this with such a straight face that I actually turned and stared at him, shocked, for about thirty seconds, before that irrepressible smile twitched across his wide mouth. Just the sight of that ridiculous smile made me laugh, the tension draining out of my neck and shoulders. >>There. Now you are smiling again, so my job is done.<<

So it seemed like we were friends again? Florian was so mercurial he completely confused me. >>Don't flirt with me<< I said quietly, pushing my elbow into his ribs.

>>I'm sorry. I am not normally so much of a flirt, but it is too easy to fall into flirting with you. I should be more careful.<< He moved away from me, and as my eyes scanned the room, I saw Holger looking at us with an odd, slightly disbelievingly expression.

I don't know how I got through the night. Well, yes, I do know how I got through the night. Gin is how I got through. I drank glass after glass of gin and tonic, until I got so drunk that I didn't really care that Ralf took me home, and didn't really mind that he fucked me energetically, maybe even brutally, across his bed, as if restaking his territory.

I didn't care about anything at all, until I woke up the next morning with my head spinning and my stomach churning, and I barely made it to the cold, marble-floored bathroom before vomiting my guts up into the loo. So getting stone cold drunk on an empty stomach was not going to be the easy option, either. I rolled over on my back, staring up at the toilet bowl, feeling the marble floor reassuringly cold against the back of my throbbing head. So I had come to Düsseldorf to get an education, and here I was, lying stark naked on the grimy floor of a musicians' flophouse with my head feeling like I'd been run over. Was this the kind of education I'd intended? My algorithm, though it spat out pretty enough fabric designs for Silke's dresses, was still unfinished. My studies were neglected, my grade in Design might even have slipped down to a B if I couldn't salvage the final project. And I had not so much as written a postcard to either of my parents since getting back from Forst.

What the fuck was I doing with my life?

Slowly, painfully, I got up, and forced myself into the shower, the pitiful lukewarm water waking me just enough to go back to Ralf's room, put my slip dress back on, and make my way back to the dormitory. Enough mucking around. When we moved out of the dorm into our flat, things were going to change. Come December, I was going to start a new life in a new apartment.


	22. The Models

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Silke and Jan promenade their designs at the Kunstakademie's grand end-of-semester show, they find themselves talent-scouted by the Düsseldorf fashion industry.
> 
> But Emil is furious to be losing his girlfriend for a second time, and this time, to a camera!

The first of December was a Tuesday, so Myrthe and I had spent the weekend putting everything into boxes in preparation. I had sworn that I had arrived in Düsseldorf with one suitcase and a box of books, but somehow over the previous few months, I seemed to have accumulated books, clothes, dresses, posters, records, all the paraphernalia of a student life. It seemed completely odd to me now that I had somehow lived the life of an ascetic in London, that austere and severe young woman who could keep all of her clothes in one suitcase, and never ever bought ridiculous orange satin jeans or suede boots at second hand shops.

Michael had tried to borrow the Bus of Sounds from Wolfgang in order to transport his dispersed belongings from our dorm room, his squat, and the rehearsal studio on Mintropstrasse. But it turned out, since he had defected to Power Station, Wolfgang was no longer speaking to him. Ralf had offered the VW, but it simply wasn't big enough to carry all of our assorted clobber, and besides, after being badly let down by that car twice, I no longer trusted it. But finally, Klaus was prevailed upon to put his large, rusty van to good use. He parked it outside on the street, and our belongings were passed officially through the door, and unofficially through the window, and the massive interior of the vehicle swallowed them all easily, with Marlene standing, waving stylishly by the rear window as we drove off.

The whole gang had been asked to assemble at the new house, as it was on the very top floor of a building that housed a carpet shop on the ground floor, and two stories of lawyers' offices beneath our flat. Since there were three flights of stairs to be negotiated between the street and our apartment, we thought getting as many people as possible to carry would make it easier to form a kind of human chain to get all the boxes up the narrow stairs. So three of Power Station, minus Flori, but plus Emil, plus Silke, Freda and Anni, had all pitched in, two of us to each staircase. It was very efficient, at least until Ralf tried to rearrange the system so that everybody carried boxes up the entire three flights, and one after another, everyone collapsed in the kitchen to help themselves to refreshment, leaving Myrthe and I to run down and collect the last of the boxes by ourselves.

And then, finally, as everyone drank beer and ate hummus with pita bread from the Turkish shop on the corner, I got to explore my new home. The main floor had, at the front, a large, open living space with kitchen things at one end, and two huge arched windows looking down onto the street. Tacked on at the very back like an afterthought was an old-fashioned bathroom with an iron tub, then between the two ends of the house were two bedrooms, one fairly large, with a double bed, the other little more than a box room, with only a single bed, a desk and a bookshelf somehow crowded in above that.

Ralf frowned at the single bed. >>Well, this doesn't seem fair.<<

>>How is it not fair?<< I asked. >>There are two of them sharing the other bedroom. You can hardly ask them to take this little tiny space. I find it quite cosy, to be honest.<< To be really honest, I was actually quite relieved at the single bed, as it meant that I was under no obligation to invite Ralf into my space.

>>Wasn't there a third bedroom?<< Ralf demanded, still acting as if he'd been somehow cheated.

>>Well, it's not really a bedroom<< said Myrthe, picking up her sewing machine and slinging it under her arm. >>Come, come. I'll show you.<< I picked up her sewing box and followed her back out into the hall, and through what had looked like a closet door, up a very steep and narrow staircase, until we emerged out into starlight. It wasn't a bedroom at all; it was an open weaver's loft the size of the entire flat downstairs, with huge, floor to ceiling windows, and skylights punctuating the triangulated roof. >>Welcome to our new Atelier.<<

>>Oh my god<< I said dumbly, looking about me, and trying to imagine a huge Jacquard loom filling the space.

Silke was a few steps behind us, emerging up into the loft with Marlene the tailor's dummy tucked under her arm. >>This is amazing<< she gushed, and then not a heartbeat later. >>Can I come and work here?<<

>>Of course<< laughed Myrthe, hugging her with delight. >>It's so big all three of us can work here together. You must come over whenever you need to.<<

Michael came up the stairs next, dragging a box of fabric samples. >>You know this was going to be my studio...<<

>>No it wasn't<< said Myrthe firmly. >>You were going to have the little room, but Jan's in there now.<<

>>Can't I even have just a corner of it? Over here, by the windows maybe? Plenty of space for my guitar and amp<< begged Michael.

>>What do you need a studio for? We have plenty of space at Mintropstrasse<< grumbled Ralf as he emerged, blinking, up into the attic. Ralf, of course, had somehow managed to get out of carrying any boxes.

>>Because I might want to do my own music?<< said Michael diplomatically.

Ralf looked utterly perplexed. >>But why would you want to do your own music, when you are in Power Station? That is... just not how we work.<<

Michael frowned, but clearly decided it was better just to say nothing. >>I guess I'm outvoted. The three tailors have the attic to themselves.<<

>>Four tailors now<< said a familiar voice, and we all turned to see Florian stooping in the doorway. I stared at him blankly for a few moments, before realising he had made a pun on his own surname - Schneider, in German, meant Tailor - and burst into laughter. >>I am sorry, I was delayed at the Conservatory. I seem to have missed the heavy lifting... but I did bring takeaway curry?<<

The lads fell upon the curry as if they hadn't already demolished our week's worth of hummus. With Flori ensconced in the kitchen area, dishing out curry and making silly puns, I felt that his appearance was some kind of good omen. I would be happy living in this bright, cheerful apartment in the Altstadt.

I knew I enjoyed living with Myrthe, and Michael turned out to be a cheerful, relaxed addition to the household, especially now that they had their own bedroom so I didn't have to see his bare arse ever again! Our friends said it must be nice having a man about the place, but to be honest, he was so slight and so girlish that I sometimes forgot he was a boy at all. Really, it was like having three girls living in the house - well, four, if you counted Silke, who was always around since she moved her work into the attic. But Silke was definitely an asset to the house - she had an excellent eye, and provided curtains and furnishings which made the shabby attic look very chic indeed.

She soon worked her magic on me, too, sitting me down and sorting out my clothes and my personal style. My hair was beginning to grow out into a bit of a shapeless mop, so Silke took me to a small, old-fashioned gentlemen's hairdresser near the train station. The shop smelled very nice - clean and slightly herbal, like Florian's aftershave - and was full of old-fashioned black and white photos of film stars from before the war. I had thought the hairdresser, an older man with perfectly quoiffed hair and a pressed shirt, who fell into a chasm of age that could be anywhere between 50 and 80, would give me a hard time about wanting a man's haircut, but he didn't bat an eyelid when I pointed to a photo of a man with a long, square face like mine, and a long blond fringe swept back off his forehead in a very 1930s style. The barber wet my hair, cut it very short at the back, then used the razor and a metal comb to give me a sharply geometric fringe in front.

>>You have such unruly hair, like a little boy<< laughed the hairdresser, in a high, flutey voice. >>But don't worry, we will make a man of it.<<

Then it was Silke's turn in the chair, and she pointed to a woman with a helmet-like bob, tonged into perfect, almost cylindrical waves. The barber whipped the nylon sheet around her shoulders - stopping to exclaim over a pretty diamante brooch Silke was wearing - then set about refreshing those film star looks that all of her friends admired. And best of all was the price, which didn't seem to have changed since the 50s! I noted that Silke gave him a large tip, so I did the same, but it was still unbelievably inexpensive. I made a mental note to come back every 6 weeks, and as we walked away, I jotted down the address, as it looked like such an odd, old-fashioned, unpromising place from the outside.

>>Yes, they are such sweet old things<< sighed Silke, touching her curls gently as we walked to the bus stop. >>I must stop and bring them flowers next time I think to.<<

>>Flowers, for a barbershop<< I said quietly, thinking Germany had such odd customs.

>>Of course they are all as fruity as a congregation of priests in there<< Silke shrugged lightly. >>One of my gay friends tipped me off. If you want a really good haircut, you must go to a homosexual. Ask for Edie again if you go by yourself - she is the best of all of them.<<

I stared at Silke disbelievingly. >>Wait. That was a woman?<<

>>Of course.<< Silke smirked at me as she turned around. >>What did you think?<<

Suddenly, the world seemed to be all turning inside out on itself. I craned my head and looked at the reflection of my perfect haircut in the bus shelter's glass. >>Oh my god.<< And then I realised. >>Wait. Did they think that you and I are lovers?<<

Silke laughed aloud. >>Would it bother you if they did? Oh, I had forgotten. The English are so strange about homosexuals. It is still illegal in your country, yes?<<

I swallowed and took a deep breath, wondering if Ralf had passed on my secret. Was the gossip going to follow me here, like it had in London? >>No, it wouldn't bother me at all. I don't mind. It is just, as you say, different from where I come from.<<

In truth, my curiosity was piqued. Even when I had lived with Valerie, we had known almost no other homosexuals, and certainly none that had flirted and played in such an easy manner as Edie and her colleagues. And in reflection, as I realised that the comment about my unruly hair had been a kind of flirtation, I realised that actually I liked it. It had made me feel good, flattered in a way that Ralf's aggressive compliments never did.

As the bus arrived, on time to the very second, I laughed at how different Germany was. All the things that mattered, like bus schedules and working hard at art school, they were very uptight and correct about. And all the things that didn't matter, like homosexual women in men's haircuts, they were completely relaxed about. It was very foreign, yes, but I decided I liked it. I did not want to go back to England with its perpetually delayed transport and its endless horrible prejudices.

With Silke's help on my hair and my wardrobe, I felt so stylish I could hardly believe that I had really ever wandered around London in those shapeless, sexless, denim hippie clothes. All three of us, Silke, Myrthe and myself, were turning our design eyes on ourselves as well as our coursework, and starting to dress in a very distinctive, half-old-fashioned, half-futuristic way that turned heads even in the Kunstakademie. The art school and its multi-disciplinary approach was changing us in ways we never dreamed. Everything became a work of art, our clothes, our flat, our selves.

The attic atelier soon came into its own. Although it was often bitterly cold, and the pot-bellied stove ate coal which we had to winch up through the central window using an old iron pulley up in the gable, it was a wonderful, light-filled space in which to work. After the cramped quarters of the dorm room I'd shared with Myrthe, being able to set up a small cottage loom in the corner seemed like an unimaginable luxury. Already, I'd put the word out in the Couture department that I was looking for a proper, full-sized loom, if anyone had one mouldering away in a storeroom somewhere, like the Jacquard cards.

But Silke and Myrthe _schneider_ -ed away on large trestle tables they'd erected for the purpose, while I _weber_ -ed in the corner, all three of us as busy as spiders. And busy we had to be, as the end of term show was coming up fast. I had put so much effort into sourcing or making fabric for Silke's dresses that I had forgotten to save some for my own end of year project. So I re-ran the algorithms based on the Jacquard patterns, and re-adjusted the patterns and stayed late at school to run them on the large looms there. Then it was just a case of keeping Silke from stealing the fabric for her clothes, until I had enough to turn in.

My sheer busy-ness with schoolwork was mostly enough to keep from going round Ralf's more than every few days. And Power Station themselves, indeed, were hard at work. They were playing a gig at the Creamcheese Club on Boxing Day, and then, in the new year, they had booked a string of dates throughout Germany to support the album. And Ralf, being the taskmaster he was, wanted them well-rehearsed and able to improvise with ease and fluidity. So every spare moment that they were not at their various colleges, they were down at Mintropstrasse from four in the afternoon, until well after midnight, some days, Michael would reappear, yawning, back at our flat.

I turned in my final Design project in the nick of time, and saved my grade point average. Silke turned in nothing, and still managed to pass the course, because she had started fucking Emil again. I ran into her as often in the kitchen of the Berger Allee as I did at our Atelier, making coffee, with Emil's dressing gown draped round her shoulders. She would just look at me with a half-smile on her lips, as if daring me to say something. Of course, I thought this was completely unethical, but I said nothing, partly because I knew we needed one another for the end of term show, and partly because Ralf teased me if I showed any sign of disapproval of the liaison of convenience.

>>Emil and Silke are as bad as one another<< he chuckled to himself after finding her in the kitchen for the third time in a week. >>Which means I think they are actually made for one another. They suit each other perfectly.<<

>>But they don't love each other<< I protested, feeling some vague sense of injustice and annoyance that stretched far beyond Silke and Emil. >>They're just using each other for sex.<<

>>I think Emil likes her more than he lets on<< mused Ralf, though perhaps he, too, was talking about more than just Emil. >>He has the heart of a Romantic, underneath his hippie free-love exterior.<<

I frowned, though I was unable to articulate disapproval, at that time. It was not even the fault of my incomplete German; it was a lesson I had not yet fully learned. So many of those hippie men of the 70s wanted "free love" for themselves, but they never wanted to allow their girlfriends the same freedoms. But I had yet to grasp that detail, and besides, I was still feeling very, very confused and tender inside because of Florian and my perpetually unresolved feelings for him.

Florian, however, I barely saw in those weeks. If we hadn't all been so busy, I would have sworn that he was avoiding me. On the nights that I stayed over at the Berger Allee, he always seemed to have gone back to Golzheim to hash out some item of crucial musical importance with Klaus. But Ralf said I was imagining things, when I noted how odd it was that I never saw his housemate. Florian, after all, he insisted, had tests of his own. There was a particularly difficult micropolyphonic woodwind piece by Ligeti that he had agreed to perform as part of a wind quintet; and then there was a John Cage piece that he had to execute on the piano, an instrument that Florian was best described as suspicious of. He was not, at that time, the accomplished and elegant keyboard-player that Ralf was.

Still, he had agreed to perform at our end of term show. The fashion students' presentation, it turned out, had been moved from the school's small and rather poky auditorium to a much grander room at the Kunstmuseum - another idea of Beuys' no doubt, trying to synthesise the ancient and the modern, reconciling fine art and the workmanship of craft or some nonsense like that. I would have to come up with some similar rubbish myself when I put together my final project at the end of the year, but that could at least wait a few months. Silke and I discussed this often, the semiotics of popular design, the grammar of everyday objects, much to Emil's amusement, as it was he who had put these ideas in our heads in the first place, though no doubt, he had taken his entire syllabus from Beuys wholesale!

The hall, when I saw it, frankly intimidated me. We had to walk down the centre, on a raised walkway, while our assembled classmates - and any grandees of Düsseldorf that cared to join us - filled the rows of seats that had been set up on either side. This was looking less and less like the small favour I had promised Silke, and more like a grand performance. Power Station had been given a small area at the far end of the walkway in which to set up as best they could, given the constrictions they had been placed under. No live drum kit, the organisers had insisted, as it was far too loud for these hallowed halls. But the Kunsthalle had allowed a drumkit, Ralf had protested, but to no avail. Klaus, much annoyed by the imposition, was limited to a small selection of percussion instruments and shakers, though Florian had invited a friend of his from the Conservatory to sit in on violin, to make up the extra volume.

Unfortunately, the students all went in alphabetical order, which meant that we - listed under Silke's surname of Weber - were dead last. Alas, if we'd entered under my name, we could have gone second, after Heidi Baumeyer, but Silke insisted that last was best, anyway. People would be sure to remember us that way. Unless, of course, I noted, watching the bottles of sekt being carted into the reception area, everyone was too sauced to notice us.

Somehow, Flori and the violin player ended up being drafted into playing some light classical accompaniment for the other students. That didn't seem fair, as none of them had put the thought into it that we had, in terms of actually selecting music and finding musicians to complement their work. Ralf, Michael and Klaus sat it out, on principle, out of loyalty to us, they said, but really I think they wanted to ogle the other girls showing their miniskirts without having to concentrate on their instruments.

It wasn't at all what I expected of a fashion show at all, to be honest. (Not that I had been to many - OK, apart from two end of term shows at St Martins, I hadn't been to any at all.) The Germans were very orderly, and barely clapped when each segment was over, while the photographers from the school sat very sedately at the end of the walkway, where they could record the show from the best angle.

Emil buzzed about in the impromptu "backstage area" where we were preparing the clothes, clutching a whole bottle of Sekt, tipsy already. He was pretending to help in some official capacity, but it was obvious he was only there to pester Silke, though she was far too busy to play with him. He leered at her and quipped that he wished he'd known that photography was allowed, as he'd have brought his polaroid, as clearly the way to her heart was through a camera. Silke just frowned and shooed him away before pulling me aside to get ready.

Myrthe had already done our make-up and our hair in the very stylised 1920s silent-film style we favoured. She had been conscripted to help backstage, preparing and handing us the clothes so that we could get in and out as quickly as possible. Initially, Silke had tried to enlist her to wear a few of the outfits, too, but Myrthe had been allowed to demur. I wondered if I had put my foot down harder, if I would have been spared the humiliation, but then I realised, as Myrthe stood on her tip-toes to touch up Silke's facial powder, that at only 152 cm, she was too short for Silke's clothes! The minutes ticked down. Hanna Ditmar showed her six outfits to faint applause, then came back inside, blushing, to surrender the floor to Laura Finkelstein. How many more girls were there? I stared at the list of Silke's classmates, trying to cross off the unfamiliar names, and wishing that I'd had more than just a sip of Emil's sekt to steady my nerves.

>>Come on, let's get this first one on you<< urged Myrthe, taking the first dress off the rack. Of course Silke had given me all the bizarre space-princess gowns to wear, trying not to trip over the long trains, while she had chosen the more sensible tailored suits. If, that is, you could call a suit spangled with rivets and silver wire mesh 'sensible'. I slipped on the silver high-heeled shoes and just prayed that I would be able to walk in them.

Another student took her turn, and then another, and then I heard haunting organ music wafting in from the hall. Ralf. Oh shit, that meant it was our turn. >>Go, go, go!<< urged Myrthe, adjusting my hair one last time, pulling at the hem of the dress and then pointing me out towards the walkway. I climbed the steps without incident, thankfully, then passed through the door and out into the hall.

The spotlights nearly blinded me. It was like a tunnel of light between me and the end of the walkway, and I could see nothing beyond, so I hesitated in the doorway, looking back and forth, panicking slightly. Dizziness hit me, so I grabbed onto the doorframe with either hand for support, staring out into that yawning chasm of light.

>>Just walk!<< hissed Silke somewhere behind me. I knew what I had to do. Just walk to the end of the platform, turn around twice to show the rear of the outfit, then walk back. Then Silke would do the same thing, while I rushed back to Myrthe to get the next dress over my head. Yet I stood there, terrified, feeling like I was going to throw up, wondering how on earth Ralf and Flori seemed able to just get up onstage and jump about, exposing themselves in front of hundreds of people, night after night, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Ralf and Flori. They saved me. Flori must have realised that something was wrong, because he almost immediately changed the music, picking up the pace from wandering pastoral prettiness to something jaunty, a quick walking beat, not quite a march, but danceable enough to get me moving. Ralf picked it up, playing arpeggios like a babbling brook underneath, and I found the courage to move forward.

What on earth was I supposed to do with my face? The other girls had smiled, tried to look gracious or pleasing or pretty. My face felt like a mask. I had seen proper models, professionals, sometimes, from a distance, at the Creamcheese Club, and they always looked somewhere between haughty and bored, so I did my best to mimmic that, frowning as I caught sight of Ralf, staring up at me with outright lust on his face. When I got to the end of the walkway, there were more photographers than I remembered, one of them far too old to be a student at the Kunstakademie.

>>Give us a smile, love<< he called out. I channelled Flori's most Rhine-freezing death-glare and glowered at him as he flashed his bulb in my face. Narrowing my brows at him in warning, I whirled about so fast the train of my dress flew out in a great circle, and stalked back to the safety of the dressing room.

Silke took my place, and I rushed back to the rack, trying hard not to throw up or trip over my own dress or do anything except start to peel the gown off me. >>Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance<< teased Myrthe, before seeing from my face that I was not in the mood for it. <Sorry... come on, put your arm up. Like that, yes, got it.<<

>>I am never doing this again<< I hissed, as Myrthe swapped out the dresses, then pulled at my hair so it stood out about my head in a great blond halo.

>>That's what they all say, before they get hooked<< she laughed, pushing me back towards the entrance, just as Silke was coming down the steps again, smiling and nearly laughing her head off.

>>They love it! They absolutely love us out there!<< Silke, it seemed, was already hooked on the intoxication of the crowd.

>>Oh Christ.<< I gulped and stepped out into the void again. Ralf and Flori were really giving it some welly, the music just tumbling out of them in a cheerful stream, and I tried to match my step to fit. The annoying photographer was still at the end, and this time he hooted to try to get my attention, so I gave him another glare, flaring my nostrils and baring my teeth slightly, before turning on my heel and stalking back to the relative safety of the dressing room.

>>Who is that guy<< asked Silke as I passed her. >>I know I've seen him before somewhere.<<

>>No idea; don't care<< I snorted, rushing back to Myrthe to change into the Theodore-Heuss-Brücke dress. One more pass and I never, ever had to do anything quite so foolish ever again. This time Silke took a bit longer, staying out at the end of the walkway, flirting with the photographer, bending down to show off a bit of her chest as he snapped away. Silke had more of a perfect hourglass figure, and with her rosy cheeks and her helmet-like bob of lightly curled blonde hair, she looked like the 'bloom of German womanhood' or whatever nonsense it was the papers liked to print about pretty young girls. I hiked up the skirts of my suspension-bridge dress, and stood just out of sight, wondering how on earth she managed to look like she was enjoying herself.

>>Get out there! We are on fire!<< urged Silke as she passed. I stalked to the end like a prowling lioness, completely blanked the photographer, even as he shouted at me, and let his flashbulb off right in my face. I turned around twice, flashed a tight smile at Ralf and Flori, then stalked back to the dressing room to be relieved of my terrible bargain.

Myrthe was waiting with a bottle and three glasses. >>Here, have some bubbly, my dear. You've earned it.<<

I seized the glass and drained it, wondering what had happened to the nervous little girl who used to space out a single glass of wine to last all night. >>Can I change now?<<

>>No<< she laughed. >>You're supposed to wear your creations to the party, so the instructors can get a better idea of how they move and breathe in a social situation.<<

>>Oh, fuck me sideways<< I moaned. Swearing was another thing that I had never had much time for, back in London. And yet a few months among musicians, all of whom, with the exception of the perpetually angelic Michael, swore like fishwives, my German vocabulary had expanded copiously.

>>I will do my best, when we get home.<< Ralf had appeared out of nowhere, and swept me up in an embrace. He tried to kiss me, but I turned my head.

>>Don't - my lipstick<< I warned. When I was wearing the high silver stilettos, I was a good half a head taller than him, and his tininess bothered me for some reason. >>Shouldn't you be playing?<<

>>It's over<< he laughed. >>That's it, you're off the hook. Flori and the violin player are doing a bit of chill-out music while the crowd moves through into the reception hall but everyone else's on their way out to the party.<<

>>Are you even supposed to be in here?<< I hissed. >>This is a dressing room, for fucks sake. We've all been naked in here!<<

>>And I missed it?<< He had the gall to look disappointed.

>>Get out!<< I threw the first thing to hand at him, which unfortunately turned out to be my bra.

>>Ooh, I'm keeping this! First time anyone's thrown a bra at me yet.<< He stuffed it into his pocket and grinned widely as he walked to the door, then turned, just before he left. >>I love you!<<

I just gawped at him, hating when he did that, never knowing what to say back, though he had long since stopped complaining about my silence. >>More wine<< I demanded, holding out my glass towards Myrthe.

>>We should really save some for Silke<< she said guiltily, even as she divided the remains between our two glasses.

>>Silke will be at the party already, knowing her.<< I drank deeply, finally feeling the panic subside. I could not believe that I had spent so long dreading the event, and now it was over in a flurry of only a few minutes.

Another head appeared at the door to the dressing room. >>Come on, my girls!<< It was Emil, sloppy drunk and grinning with mischief. >>They're waiting for you, Jan. Everyone wants to know who the mysterious glaring blonde was. Your public is anxious to meet you!<<

>>If I wanted to be really mysterious, I should go home now.<< I insisted, but Emil would not be denied, hooking one arm through my elbow, and the other through Myrthe's. He lead us out, through the now-deserted hall, to the reception room where the drinks were being quaffed. I was not prepared for a second grand entrance, as Emil put his hand on the small of my back, and gave me a little push forward, into the room. People turned around to stare. Another flashbulb popped in my face. And suddenly the whole room burst into applause. It seemed most unusual; nothing like this ever happened at the St Martins' shows.

I looked about wildly, still glaring at people, and at that moment, I would have been relieved if Ralf had come out of the crowd to save me, but of course, when I needed him, he was nowhere to be found. Casting my eyes about, I finally spotted Silke and made a beeline for her. Oh no. Silke was holding court with the photographers, and that awful, awful man who had been leering and flashing bulbs at me was hanging on her every word.

>>The rivets and the metallic suspension detailing, you see, are in homage to Düsseldorf and the Rhineland's industrial past<< she was explaining, proving she had actually managed to pay attention during Emil's lectures on visual semiotics; or perhaps she had gained something from his 'private tutoring' after all. >>While the futuristic fabrics and computer-generated designs hark forward in anticipation of Düsseldorf's current role as the high-tech design centre for all of Germany!<<

I stopped, and tried to turn back, not wanting to interrupt her fashion spiel, but it was too late. She had seen me, and grasped hold of my hand, pulling me into the circle. >>Jan!<< she cried, with a little curtsy of happiness. >>Come and meet Helmut. Helmut, who was it you said you worked for again?<<

The awful photographer smirked at me, and reeled off a list of most of the local Düsseldorf papers, and one or two of the national press - even I recognised the name _Der Spiegel_.  >>Oh, and of course I also freelance for the major fashion houses of Düsseldorf, from time to time.<<

Silke turned to me, raising her eyebrows with great importance and meaning. >>You will let Helmut take a few more photos of the dress...<< I could see him raising the camera, so I raised my hand to shield my face.

>>He may take as many photos of the dress as he likes... when I am no longer in it. I am tired of being photographed<< I snapped testily.

>>I'm certainly happy to take you out of the dress if that's what you want ha ha<< quipped the photographer with a leer. I glared at him. >>Ach! If you would let me photograph that exact expression...<<

>>This expression, if you are unable to tell, means that I wish to be left alone!<<

Helmut raised his hand to his face in imitation of me, and started to make fun of my accent. >> _I vont to be left aloooone_. God, she's like a young Greta Garbo, but with an adorable little English accent. What a find! <<

I was about to draw back and hit him when a friendly voice appeared at my shoulder. >>I thought you looked like you might need a drink.<< Flori, with his manic grin and his gentle voice, his flute still tucked into the crook of his arm, as if he expected to be called on to provide more music at any moment, handed me another glass of bubbly. He dropped his voice almost to a whisper and added >>I know a hundred people have probably told you this already, but you look very, very beautiful tonight.<<

I blushed slightly, then smiled with relief and took the wine. For some reason, a halting compliment from Flori made me feel a hundred times better than all the smooth platitudes of Ralf or Emil or that creepy photographer. It was so odd being up on these high heels and looking directly into his eyes, but his mere presence seemed to reassure me. >>Helmut, if you want to take pictures of someone important, you should know that the young men who accompanied our show with improvisational music are none other than the local music group, Power Station. I am sure you will have heard their song, Ruckzuck, on the radio? Their album has just come out, and they are becoming very, very well known<< I said diplomatically.

Spotting his chance, Helmut raised his large, professional camera to photograph the two of us together, and suddenly, as if drawn like a moth to a flame, Ralf appeared at my other elbow, and put his arm around my waist. >>No no<< directed Helmut. >>I need you two to stand back slightly, I want to photograph the dress. Jan, would turn slightly, so I can see the suspension effects?<<

>>So he can see your arse<< Ralf quipped, with an impertinent little pat. I wanted to grind the stiletto heel of my silver shoes into the soft part of his foot.

>>The designer's name is Silke<< said my design partner in the photographer's ear as he composed and photographed his shot. >>With an E not an A. S - I - L - K - E. Silke Weber.<<

He lowered his camera again. >>And that would be... you?<<

>>Precisely.<< Silke grinned, and twirled a strand of hair. I almost laughed at her obviousness, and how she could do this with Emil standing right behind us, I did not know, but there she was, flirting away.

>>Alright, let's get a picture of the designer with her creation<< Helmut said, humouring her.

>>And Myrthe, as well. Myrthe is our Stylist<< Silke added, holding out her hand to pull Myrthe into the picture. The flashbulb popped and I felt dizzy. >>Now, our Atelier is in the Altstadt, above the Persian Carpet shop, if you want to come and see the rest of the collection...<<

Helmut smiled as he cottoned on to exactly what was going on. Digging in his suit jacket, he produced a business card. >>This is the address of my studio, and my office. My hourly rates as a freelance photographer are printed on the back.<<

>>Oh, but we are only impoverished students. We cannot afford hourly rates.<< Silke batted her eyelashes most alluringly, and I felt almost embarrassed for her - surely this man worked with professional models all the time, and was not to be persuaded by the clumsy seduction attempts of a fashion student.

But all at once, I felt a disturbance in the crowd, and heard the rustling of clothes as people moved aside for the steam-train that was coming through. >>Yoo-hoo! Silke, darling. So lovely to see you!<< A tall, imperious blonde woman appeared, and swept Silke into an embrace and a Hollywood kiss on each cheek. >>You were marvellous! Absolutely marvellous! Our Flori has such talented and original friends. I am so proud.<< Oh Christ, it was Evamaria, dressed in elegant silks and bestowing butterfly kisses everywhere. >>And you, too, little mouse! How you have blossomed! Whoever could have guessed that this dazzling art-deco creature is the same little mouse I first saw creeping round my swimming pool at midnight. You were fabulous, darling, most fabulous.<<

I suffered the kisses, stuttered out my thanks, and looked about wildly for help. Yes, there was Flori with an apologetic expression on his face. He took my hand and extricated me gently from his mother's clutches. >>See? Everyone thinks you look wonderful tonight<< he added with a wistful smile.

>>The clothes!<< Evamaria continued at top volume, turning back to Silke. >>These are absolute masterpieces. My daughter sent me to look - she has some notion how this new designer, this Silke Weber, is the only designer who will to do design her wedding dress. But now I have seen your work, I understand. This is truly inspired. This is the dress my Claudia wants to be married in.<< She tugged gently at the wires of my suspension-bridge dress, and I felt suddenly rather territorial about it. Now I had worn the dress twice, I thought of it as my own. I didn't want it to be sold, not to Claudia, not to anyone.

>>Well, we shall see<< said Silke, lowering her eyelashes modestly. >>I am still only a student.<<

>>Nonsense<< proclaimed Evamaria, seizing me by the arm and pulling me away from her son, back towards the photographer. >>I know talent when I see it. Helmut, you mark my word. These girls will be famous, and soon. Put that in your newspaper and print it!<<

>>Well, perhaps if we are lucky enough to win the patronage of the Schneider-Esleben family, this will be a step towards making my dreams a reality.<< Silke said, repressing her usual jaunty confidence in a performance that was entirely too life-like for my comfort.

>>Dream big, child. Don't be afraid to dream big, that's what my husband always says<< Evamaria had started to intone, as if delivering the sermon in my strict Dutch grandmother's church, and I started to back away slowly, as I had never been much of a one for churching. >>Never swim with the current, dear, or you will be swept out to sea. Swim against the current, and you will find the source.<<

I backed away until I was even with Flori again, and touched him gently on the crook of the arm where he was still cradling his flute. He looked so out of place among the Fashion crowd that he seemed to be clinging onto his instrument like some kind of totem. My heart filled with appreciation for the sensitive young man, who seemed to be my own protective totem. >>Thank you<< I said softly, tapping his arm gently. He looked up, startled. >>For the music.<<

>>Oh, yes. It was nothing.<< He flushed slightly, as if embarrassed. >>We enjoy playing in unconventional situations; it is good practice, even if it is not very lucrative.<<

It was my turn to blush. Silke hadn't even thought to pay them, though I knew they had received fees from both the Kunsthalle and the Creamcheese Club for their appearances. >>I do appreciate it. And... I wanted to thank you. For saving me, by switching the music. I get very bad stage fright, you know.<< I confessed.

Flori's smile nearly flooded my heart with too much emotion, like the engine of Ralf's little car. >>And me, as well.<<

>>You? Never!<<

>>I have all my life. Terrible stage fright. But I learned how to cope long ago. Don't look at the people, look up at the lights. Look at the ceiling, the sky. I trained myself, at a young age, giving flute recitals, to go very still when I felt afraid. Make your body completely motionless, and breath out all of the fear and the badness into the air surrounding you, while looking up and raising your thoughts above it all. It is very effective. The panic goes, with a few deep breaths.<<

For a few moments, I just looked at him, my breath catching in my throat, my heart pounding. I wanted to reach out and embrace him, some strange maternal instinct - not that cloying performance of Maternal Support that Evamaria was still bestowing upon Silke on the other side of the room, but a desire to fold him in my arms and smooth down his wild hair, and clutch him against me and _make everything right_ for him. There was just something about Flori's awkward sincerity that made me want to take care of him.

But before I was foolish enough to act on it, Ralf and Michael and Klaus reappeared, arguing softly among themselves as they worked out what, precisely, to do with all of their musical gear, and trying to enlist Flori's opinion.

>>Do you think we should take the equipment back to Mintropstrasse tonight, or can we leave it at the Berger Allee overnight?<< asked Michael.

>>I don't know. Well, that really depends on whether Emil is going to throw a party back a the flat. I don't want any more drunken students tripping over my organ. Where is Emil? Emil!<< bellowed Ralf.

>>Emil is... well, Emil is distracted<< quipped Klaus, and I followed his eye-line to see Emil glaring furiously as Silke flirted shamelessly with the photographer. >>Emil! Are we having a party round your gaff, or should we take the gear back to Flori's workshop?<<

Emil's face darkened, and I could almost see what he was thinking. It was like Wolfgang, at Forst, all over again. >>Silke!<< he called out, his voice a bit too loud, clearly trying to embarrass her. >>Where are you sleeping tonight? You promised to come back to the Berger Allee.<<

Silke shrugged prettily, one arm around the photographer's shoulders as he showed her a series of Polaroids of his work. >>No, I don't think so. Helmut has most generously promised to come by the Atelier tonight and see if we can work out some deal on his hourly rate.<<

>>But _we_ had a deal, remember? << Emil's face was turning almost purple with rage and jealousy.

>>Over my grades, yes. But you've already turned in your final grades for the semester. Next semester, I am no longer in your class. Your deal is concluded, I am free to do as I wish.<<

Emil looked back and forth between the photographer, who was smirking now he realised the full terms of Silke's offer, and Silke, whose face was still perfectly calm and clear and pretty as the Bloom of German Womanhood, as if she were discussing the price of sugar, rather than the affections of her lovers. >>You fickle female.<< he finally spat. >>So, it only takes a camera to change your mind?<<

Silke said nothing, and turned away, back to Helmut's polaroids. Emil turned on his heel and stormed out, his face seething. Flori turned to Ralf and Klaus and rolled his eyes. >>So. It looks like we are taking the gear back to Mintropstrasse after all.<< he said, perfectly calmly.

Ralf's eyes flickered back towards me. >>Are you coming?<<

>>I don't think so. It's not as if you allow me in your studio, anyway.<< Picking up the train of my skirt, I retreated to the dressing room to change, then started to pack Silke's exquisite clothes up into suitcases to take back to our flat.

So I went home in a taxi with the girls, that night, and lay by myself in my narrow single bed in that small bedroom like a ship's cabin, listening to the sounds of the squeaking couch springs as Silke fucked the photographer in the Atelier above. I did not understand it at all! Emil, at least, was young and handsome, even if he was tempestuous and a bit possessive. But the photographer, my god, he was old, and out of shape; he was 40 if he was a day! I could not have brought myself to touch his withered flesh, not for all the world, and I was relieved when I heard him creep down the stairs and leave in the middle of the night. At least I would not have to see his leering face at the breakfast table in the morning.


	23. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silke is milking her new contacts in the fashion industry for all they are worth, as she and Jan start a glittering new career - if, that is, she can keep her affairs of the heart in order.
> 
> And Ralf hints that he has a _very_ important question to ask Jan over Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just before anyone complains: I completely made the stuff about German social security numbers up. I have no clue how they work.

Early on Sunday morning, Silke ran up the stairs to our flat breathlessly, clutching all of the Düsseldorf Sunday papers. >>Well! It seems our friend Helmut kept his word. Unlike that rat, Emil.<<

>>What?<< I asked, spreading the papers across the kitchen table. The smaller, more local Altstadt paper, which covered the goings-on of the Kunst scene with interest, had a photo of the three of us - Myrthe, Silke and myself - on the front page, looking like three exotic birds of paradise come to land in the great hall. There was a note below, saying that the fresh, new designers had already been chosen to design a wedding dress for a big Society Wedding, in the famous Schneider-Esleben clan. The larger paper that covered all of Düsseldorf, they had a photo of us on page 3, and a shorter note, but that was photo in glorious colour, so that you could see the rich designs on Silke's dress. >>Wow. I'm... Oh my god, I'm going to have to run down and get some to send to my father.<< But then I paused, realising what she had said. >>Wait. What has Emil done.<<

>>He rang the office of the Kunstakademie on Saturday morning, told them he had made a mistake in his grades. Anni, it seems, has got herself an A for the course. Me, he has failed.<<

I stared at her. Anni had not actually turned up to a single class since that fateful party at the Kunsthalle. I had seen her often, out and about with Klaus, but she hadn't mentioned going back to school at all - we all thought she was going to drop out. >>What are you going to do?<< I asked, feeling suddenly very cold, despite the warmth of the large iron kitchen stove that heated the flat.

>>I am going to do nothing<< said Silke. >>I do not need a stupid degree from the stupid Kunstakademie if Helmut's contacts at the big Düsseldorf fashion houses come through. You know Düsseldorf is the design centre of Germany - all of the big fashion houses have offices here, and Helmut knows them all. If I play my cards right, and keep Helmut sweet, than I will get a job through him.<<

>>And what makes you think that Helmut will keep his side of the deal, any more than Emil did?<< I pointed out.

Silke smiled precisely like a cat toying with a small bird. >>Because I saw not just the fashion polaroids, but the polaroids that Helmut keeps in his wallet. And he knows I will tell his wife, if he doesn't keep up his part of the bargain.<<

I stared at Silke with horror as I realised what she had done. >>Who are you<< I said, very quietly. >>I don't know that I recognise my friend any more.<<

>>Oh, don't look at me like that, Jan. I had forgotten that you were the little moralist, under the facepaint and the fashionable clothes. You and I, Jan, we are going places. Your unusual textiles, my designs, they are the most exciting thing Düsseldorf has seen in years! When the big fashion houses see the clothes that you and I have made together, we will be a big success. Mark my words.<<

>>Emil is our friend<< I said quietly.

>>Friend? Your friend you had to blackmail to be able to stay over in your own boyfriend's house? Oh come on, Jan, don't be such a naive little mouse.<< She had started to pick up Evamaria's annoying little nicknames, as well as her expansive gestures and her arrogance.

I looked straight into her eyes, examining those pretty hyacinth-coloured pools for any sign of trustworthiness. >>Would you do the same thing to me?<< I said, very very quietly.

>>Oh, don't be ridiculous<< she shrugged. >>You and I are friends. And we are closer than friends. We are _business_ partners. I need you. <<

Things moved very quickly over the next few days. Helmut came back, breathlessly excited with news. Several of the department stores on the Kö had seen his photos in the papers, and wanted to know how they could get in touch with the exciting new designers from the Kunstakademie. So I put on the clothes once more, and glared at his camera as he shot photos to take to them, of the dresses that had not been in the show. And I pretended not to notice that when I came up from downstairs after making coffee, that he was sprawled out on the sofa with his pants around his ankles, and Silke's blonde head bobbing between his thighs. I just put his cup of coffee by his hand, ignored his leer, and retreated downstairs to fume.

Silke had a phone line put into the Atelier. We couldn't afford a phone line in the flat, but she, personally, paid to have an engineer come and run a wire up the stairs from the box by the lawyers' office. And soon, that phone started to ring. It was now deep into the run-up to Christmas. Fashionable women all over Düsseldorf would be going to parties, and Christmas parties needed fashionable new gowns. Everyone had seen the dazzling suspension-bridge dress in the newspapers, and everyone wanted to know where they could obtain one. First, it was Helmut ringing with news of which of the fashionable boutiques on Königsallee wanted an exclusive deal to sell our designs. Then it was the fashionable boutiques themselves, once they had got wind of where we lived. Time was of the essence, as the Christmas season went fast!

Helmut somehow went with us to the meetings, though I still did not trust him. He picked up Silke's handwritten sheet with a list of all the finished dresses, and looked through it, then shook his head and added another 0 to all of the prices.

>>You are joking!<< I exclaimed. >>People will never pay that much for a dress!<<

>>For original designs, hand-tailored from hand-made textiles? Oh, you'd be surprised<< said Helmut. >>Besides, I feel I should earn my 10% commission properly.<<

>>Ten percent commission?<< I exclaimed, then whirled on Silke. >>You didn't say anything about giving Helmut a commission.<<

>>A small commission, on the price after consignment, is standard practice<< Silke said, with a steely tone to her voice.

>>Before consignment<< Helmut tried to argue, but Silke shot him down.

>>After<< she said, patting him on the thigh in a way that was both warning and promise.

I barely understood any of the meetings. Not because my German was poor - after a few months in a relationship with a German, my German had become much more fluid - but because I understood so little of the world we were discussing. I understood computers and algorithms and Jacquard patterns. I did not understand collections and consignment rates and next season's must-haves. Silke, who had grown up reading Parisian Vogue like it was the Bible, fortunately did. We all went to a very expensive restaurant in the garment district - Helmut paid, though I was quite sure it was going to be sent back to us on our expenses - and Silke looked through the contracts on offer, before selecting not the best paid, which was a large department store where I sometimes bought my knickers, but the coolest and most exclusive, a fashion boutique so expensive I would never have dared to even enter without Helmut.

>>Right, we are all agreed, yes, this is the most auspicious?<< said Silke, folding the other contracts and putting them away. >>They would like our passports, our _Sozialversicherungsnummern_ and bank account details - so they know where to send the _money_ \- by tomorrow. And we deliver the clothes as soon as the details are in order. If the contract is finalised tomorrow, that means we can deliver the clothes on Thursday. My god, I hope they sell quickly, so that I we can have the money by Christmas! <<

>> _Sozialversicherungsnummern_? << I stuttered, hesitating over the unfamiliar syllables. >>What is this?<<

>>Social security number?<< shrugged Silke.

>>I don't have one of those. I am a student, in the country on a temporary visa, remember? I don't know if I'm allowed to work.<<

Silke just stared at me for a moment, but then she shrugged. >>Never mind. We will put it all in my name, they pay me the money, and I pay out your share in cash. No one from the government will ever need to know.<<

A little prickle went down the back of my neck. I don't know what it was, but something, a little voice in the back of my head told me not to do this, not to trust Silke. >>No, you know what? I will ring up the University this afternoon, and ask them if they have some identification number for me. I have a German address, and a German bank account, I'm sure that the German government has some kind of number for me. I will get it to you tomorrow.<<

>>OK, but not too late, as we do not want to do anything to jeopardise this deal, OK? Our entire careers are hanging on this<< Silke said, raising the perfect arches of her eyebrows to stress its importance.

I went home and rang the University, and told them I had neglected to update my new address on their systems. They took my new details and registered them, and then I asked, as casual as you like, >>Oh by the way do you have a social security number on record for me?<<

>>Oh, well, we put in a temporary number that the government has assigned for use with foreign students, so that we can keep our records in order<< the clerk told me.

>>Well, can I have that. I need it for some forms, for my landlord.<< I said brightly.

The clerk read out the number, and I wrote it down, but it was so obviously fake, you know, 1-2-3-4-X-Y-Q that I didn't dare use it with the boutique on Kö. Instead, I rang the Berger Allee, thinking I could just ask Ralf if I could use his. But it was Flori who picked up the phone. >>Allo Allo Allo!<<

>>Flori, what do you know about social security numbers?<< I blurted out.

>>Social security numbers.<< The question didn't even phase him, nor did the total lack of social pleasantries. >>German social security numbers are very interesting. Did you know, people think they are assigned randomly, but they are not. The first part is your date of birth, reversed, of course, year, month, then day. Then your initials and a code to indicate if you are a man or a woman, but the last part, it is like the registration of a car. With car registration plates, the first letters are the district where the car is registered - you know, like the plates of Ralf's Volkswagen say KR, not for _Kraftwerk_ , as he would have you believe, but for Krefeld - well, social security number is the same, but the letters are transposed into numbers. It is a very simple code, you see, I was born in Kattenhorn, so my code is 110120, while Ralf was born in Krefeld, so it is similar, but not the same, his is 1118...<<

It was astonishing to me that people thought Flori so silent and uncommunicative. Get him started on a subject he was interested in, and it was almost impossible to get a word in edgewise. >>Flori, Flori, FLORI, what is the code for girl?<<

>>Well, I have an M for _Manlisch_ , so I would imagine girl is W for _Weiblich_ , naturally... Or maybe F? Hmmm. I could check by asking one of my sisters, if you wanted to know for certain.<<

>>Flori, you're a life-saver<< I said, and rang off. I pulled an atlas down from my bookshelf, and stuck a pin in the map of West Germany at random to select a fake birthplace - Harsewinkel - then waited until Silke had written hers down (it was a W, indeed, and I also discovered she was a Scorpio) and wrote mine below.

The boutique accepted my fake social security number without question. They were keen to get us signed up as quickly as possible, as they had potentially sold two dresses, based on the photographs alone! Silke said she would go into the shop every day on the run-up to Christmas, to do on-the-spot tailoring for women whose measurements were not as severe as mine. (All of them would need to be adjusted for height, as no one was ever as tall as me. Really, she would have been better using Myrthe as a model!)

But then Ralf started making noises about Christmas. He had actually come over to the Atelier to pester me, which he did not normally do, as he disliked the lack of privacy, since my bedroom was far too small to withdraw to, the way we withdrew to his bedroom in the Berger Allee. But Silke was at the Boutique, and Michael was out demonstrating at an anti-Capitalism rally while Myrthe was out Christmas shopping (as if the pair of them did not see the contradictions in this!) so I had the annoyance of Ralf's company, dogging my heels as I tried to block out a new fabric with skeins of yarn.

>>You know, Christmas is only two weeks away now<< he reminded me. >>Have you made any plans?<<

>>Yes, I am staying right here. That was why we took the apartment early, to be here over Christmas.<<

>>Do you know...<< He stood up, paced back and forth for a bit, rubbing the back of his neck with his hands, pulling his hair into a ponytail, before pulling it loose again, then sat down, fidgeting with the zipper of his leather jacket. I just wanted him to sit down and stop moving about, as I found his fidgeting most distracting. >>Have you thought about perhaps coming up to Krefeld, to spend Christmas with my family?<<

>>I had not thought about giving the matter my slightest attention, because I have had no invitation from your family, and besides, I don't even know them.<< I said, moving the blue yarn aside to test the indigo against the green.

>>Maybe it's time that you should know them?<< Ralf suggested, almost collapsing in upon himself as he tugged at his collar nervously. >>My father has had word that I now have a serious girlfriend - Emil stupidly told him on the phone - and he has expressed a wish that he and my mother might meet you. And I agree. We have been together now a number of months, and I think that it is right that you should meet my family.<<

I turned slowly around, trying to keep the horror from my face. >>Meet your family?<< I said, my voice fluttering. >>But it is six weeks. Only six weeks, we have been dating.<<

>>It is only six weeks we have been fucking<< Ralf pointed out pedantically. >>We have been dating considerably longer than that. The night at the Creamcheese club... Florian's party... all of this was back in September. That makes it nearly four months. You should meet my parents.<<

>>Four months? Not more than three and a half<< I said, with a little gasp that was not entirely false. I did not like the way he was backdating what little there had been of our relationship. How could we have been 'dating' if Flori had been at every one of those events?I had just as much right to claim that I had been dating Flori those four months. >>How quickly time seems to pass.<<

>>Time flies when you're having fun<< Ralf chirped, then stood up again, pacing as he turned a small signet ring he customarily wore on his right hand, round and round on his finger. >>I don't know if you are aware, but Christmas is quite a big deal to German families. I don't know if it is the same in England.<<

>>Not really<< I lied, with a light shrug.

>>Meeting my family is a very big deal. I am concerned that it should go well. I think that you should dress smartly, but conservatively. My father still makes a big fuss over my hair...<< He put his hand to his neck and twisted it into a ponytail again. >>Some cosmetics would be in order, so you look attractive, but again, conservative cosmetics, light colours, not that heavy dark silent film-star stuff that you and Myrthe use.<<

I stared at him, wondering if it were a crime in Germany to throttle a man who demanded you wore cosmetics, then insulted your aesthetic taste, all in your own apartment. >>Do I have any clothes, at all, that pass your muster<< I said, sarcastically, in an icy cold tone.

>>Not trousers<< said Ralf with a concerned tone to his voice. >>My Mother does not approve of women who wear trousers. And I am most concerned that my Mother likes you well. Because...<< Here he stopped pacing and twisting his ring, and walked up to me, taking my face in his hands and looking deeply into my eyes. >>Because, Liebling, if you make a good impression on my family, I may have something very important to ask you.<<

>>Oh.<< I said softly, as he kissed me, but inside I was panicking. Oh no. Oh no no no no no. I did not want to meet Ralf's family. I especially did not want to spend Christmas with his family, when I was already looking forward to a quiet, happy Christmas, tucked up by myself in bed with a good novel. And this question...? Oh god no. I did not want Ralf asking me any important questions.

But then, he heard the heavy tread of Michael and Myrthe coming up the stairs, and he seemed to lose his nerve, dropping his hands from my face, throwing his heavy winter coat over his leather jacket before he fled. >>Think about it, OK? Christmas in Krefeld. It will be very special!<< And then he was gone.

I went downstairs to make coffee, and found Myrthe and Michael sloughing snow from their coats in the kitchen. >>Ralf just flew by us at about a hundred miles an hour<< laughed Myrthe. >>What did you do to frighten the poor boy?<<

>>Myrthe<< I said, very quietly, my hands shaking as I filled the coffeemaker. >>You are more familiar with German culture than I. What does it mean, when a boy asks you to meet his parents?<<

>>Oh my god<< squeaked Myrthe. >>It means he is thinking of asking you to marry him! Did Ralf...<<

>>No, not always<< contradicted Michael, with a serious expression. >>It depends on the family, depends on the occasion, depends on how conservative they are. I mean, for example, all of us have met Florian's parents, many times, but the Schneider-Eslebens are highly unconventional people and you can't believe that Flori intends to marry us all!<<

I took a deep breath. So maybe it was not so portentous after all. >>What about the Hütters. Have you ever met the Hütters?<<

>>Oh my goodness, no<< said Michael with a bit of a laugh. >>The Hütters are so conservative they probably have a Gutenberg Bible chained in the hall. None of us have met them. Our Ralfie is very secretive about his background. I have heard, his father is a doctor, and his mother was a nurse, but beyond that... Who knows? They are very wealthy, I know only that for certain.<<

>>The Hütters<< I said in a shaking voice. >>Have invited me to spend Christmas with them in Krefeld.<<

Michael stared at me for a moment, then a smile spread slowly across his generous lips. >>Myrthe!<< he said brightly. >>It seems you will be a bridesmaid in the spring. Krefeld is a beautiful town for a wedding.<<

>>Nooooooooo!<< I walked. >>I don't want to marry anyone, not in Krefeld, not in the Spring, and certainly not now. I... I can't! I have... what about my studies? I need to finish my degree. And my new job... there is the whole thing with the designs, which all seems to be taking off. And my algorithm, my poor neglected algorithm, it's all very well designing pretty patterns for Silke's frocks, but I wanted to... to do so... so much more.<<

>>But Jan<< said Myrthe, her eyes shining in that way that women's eyes often shine when they detect a wedding in the offing. >>You can do all those things, still, after you marry Ralf.<<

<But I won't! I refuse!<< I wailed, my hands shaking so bad I spilled coffee all over the stove top. >>I do not want to marry Ralf Hütter!<< And then I burst into tears.

My dreams for the next few days were horrible; confused jumbled masses where Ralf and his unknown family pursued me down endless church aisles with a giant white dress like a butterfly net, while up in the air above, a nameless banshee shrieked >>no trousers, no trousers, no trooouuuuuusers.<< It was so absurd I would have woken laughing, had I not been actually scared stiff.

Trying to take my mind off things, I dressed nicely and walked down to the Königsallee to lend Silke a hand at the boutique, now that the shopping season was getting very busy. At the boutique, though, I found that Silke was not so busy after all, gossiping with the shop assistants and helping to wrap parcels.

>>What are you doing? Shouldn't you be trying to sell our dresses, not wrapping other people's?<< I asked, confused.

>>But they have all been sold<< Silke shrugged. >>Wrapping parcels wins me brownie points with the shop manager, and I wish to keep our patrons sweet.<<

>>All of the designs?<< I gasped, looking over to the rack where our clothes had hung. There were two dummies in front, both of which had been dressed in the nicest of the gowns. One was now nude, stripped of her fashions, but I breathed a sign of relief as I saw the other was still wearing my suspension-bridge dress. That, I wanted desperately to keep. >>Oh phew<< I said. >>The Rhine bridge, you have kept for me.<<

Silke looked at me like I was crazy. >>You can't afford that dress; you don't have a thousand Deutsch Marks!<< she laughed.

>>Well, I might, after the dresses have been sold.<<

>>Well, you don't have the money until after the dress has been sold, so you can't have your dress and wear it too.<< She chuckled at her own joke, which did not translate so well into German. >>Anyway, it doesn't matter. The Schneider-Eslebens have bought that one, for the wedding. It's only here because Claudia is coming to the Atelier for a fitting tomorrow, and the boutique manager thought it would be nice to keep it up, so that corner doesn't look so bare.<<

I stared at Silke with my mouth open. My dress! It seemed so unfair of her to sell my dress. But then again, it was foolish of me to expect Silke to pass up a thousand DM for the sake of a friendship. Money talked, which meant that the Schneider-Eslebens shouted louder than anyone. I walked home alone, dejected, and retreated to my room to read. My studies were over for the year, so I had accumulated a stack of modern novels which could finally have my attention, as well as Future Shock and The Female Eunuch and other books that had inspired passionate debate among the students over the past semester. I could hear the phone ringing upstairs in the Atelier, but I ignored it. No one I wanted to speak to would possibly be ringing.

I woke late the next day. Without the structure of class to order my days, I didn't entirely know what to do with myself. When I got up, I found a note pinned to my door. --Ralf called. Wants to know about Xmas-- it declared, in Myrthe's neat handwriting. Well, Ralf was someone I wanted to talk to less than anyone. If I couldn't tell him that I didn't want to meet his parents, how on earth was I supposed to tell him I didn't want to be proposed to? I crumpled up the note and threw it away.

There was coffee in the kitchen, but there was no milk, so I decided to splurge, and give myself a little early Christmas present by taking myself out for breakfast. If we had sold all of the dresses, at least there would soon be money coming in. Though I knew I should save it, to cover my share of the rent, I thought that a little coffee and plumcake would go a long way towards cheering myself up. So I walked through the Altstadt and found the old-fashioned coffee-house with all of the mirrors, where Myrthe had first been properly introduced to Michael, all those months ago. It felt like years. I ordered plumcake, and coffee with whipped cream, as a special treat, then made my way to our favourite booth, the one with a birds' eye view of the entry. Though with the University broken up for Christmas break, the cafe was not so full of students as it used to be, and there was no one to watch.

Yet, as I sipped my coffee, the door opened, and I saw a camel-hair coat pass inside. Flori! My heart leapt, and then did a kind of a back-flip with fear as I wondered if Ralf was with him. But the door closed behind him. He was alone. After nodding at the waitress, and holding up his finger, his eyes scanned the room. I tried to sink back into my chair, to make myself invisible, but his whole face lit up when he saw me, and he made his way over.

>>Do you mind if I join you?<< he asked, in his usual quiet and dignified voice.

I stuttered, but could not think of a reason to refuse. The whole shop was deserted, yet of all the tables, he wanted mine. >>If you like.<<

He placed a brown paper package down on the floor beside him. Clearly he had just been Christmas shopping.

>>Don't you need to order<< I said, not knowing what else to say to him.

>>Oh no, I always get the same thing. They know me very well by now.<< He smiled when he saw my cake. >>You should try the cheesecake. The cheesecake here really is the best in Düsseldorf. It is particularly moist, and not too sweet, as well. I think they use honey, instead of sugar.<<

>>It is a special treat to come here<< I confessed. >>Though I would come here every day if I could afford it. I love their plumcake so much.<<

<Well.> he said. >>I hear all of your dresses have sold. You are a big success. You can have plumcake whenever you like, now.<<

>>Yes, and then Silke shouts at me, because I am too plump to fit into the dresses<< I laughed.

>>You? Never.<< But Flori, too, laughed, his eyes crinkling up at the edges in a way that completely softened his rather severe face. He was so handsome he made my teeth hurt - or maybe the coffee was still too hot to drink. But as silence fell across the table, his eyes grew sad again. >>I never see you at the Berger Allee apartment any more<< he said, with a hint of wistfulness.

>>Well, whose fault is that<< I said, a little too sharply. >>Whenever I have been there, recently, you have been off rehearsing with Klaus.<<

Flori frowned, slightly thoughtfully as well as cross. >>But that is Ralf. He tells me that Klaus and I are not improvising well together, that we must spend more time learning to grow acquainted with one another's rhythms. He shoos me out of the house to head to the studio, and I go.<<

Both of us looked at one another, and at that moment, I could see we were thinking exactly the same thing. _Ralf knows. Ralf is deliberately trying to keep us away from one another._ >>Ralf<< I said quietly, with a rather unkind tone to my voice. >>I am growing very tired of Ralf's games.<<

The waitress brought food for Florian, and he took a sip of his coffee, and toyed with his cheesecake, before finally blurting out. >>I think Ralf is done playing. You know he is planning to ask you to marry him, if his family approves of you.<<

I wanted to scream; I wanted to pick the whole table up and throw it into one of the antique mirrors, smashing crockery and spilling coffee everywhere. But I took several deep breaths and composed myself.

>>I spoil his grand surprise, and yet you say nothing<< observed Flori. >>Are you not delighted? Do you not want to marry Ralf?<<

>>Ralf is the last person I would ever marry<< I spat out, before I was able to catch myself, then tried, diplomatically, to save myself. >>I don't want to marry anyone. I've been reading Germaine Greer. Marriage is a patriarchal institution, aimed at repressing and controlling women. I want none of it.<<

Flori seemed to look at me, very carefully, but his face was absolutely unreadable. What was he thinking? I could not tell. He had made his face go all blank, and he was now staring up at the ceiling, breathing heavily. Was he angry with me, because Ralf was his friend? Or was there something else to it, was he thinking of that kiss we had shared in Langenfeld? Finally, he seemed to regain control over himself, looking down to the floor, and nudging the brown paper package with his foot. >>You know my sister is getting married, when she graduates next year. I have been trying to find her a wedding gift, as well as a christmas gift.<<

I felt my face flush with shame. >>Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I did not mean... Oh god, I meant no disrespect to your sister. I'm sure marriage is alright for some. Just not... not...<< Just not to Ralf Hütter, I wanted to say, but my voice would not come.

Florian gulped at his coffee, then seemingly managed to devour the slice in cheesecake in three bites, barely even chewing with that enormous wide mouth of his. >>Well, it has been delightful having coffee with you, Jan. I must go to my parents' house and see my sister.<< He stood up, awkwardly, dug in the pocket of his coat for a few DM and tossed them on the table for the waitress, then seemed to turn and flee the cafe. The plumcake tasted like dust in my mouth, and the coffee seemed to have lost all of its sweetness.

I drifted round the Kö for most of the afternoon trying to find Christmas presents for Silke and Myrthe, but the shimmering neon lights seemed to have lost their appeal. Mist was rising up off the canal, and everything seemed to get so dark so early. I ate lunch in a little cafe, again, another little treat to try to cheer me up, but nothing seemed to taste right. I returned home, having bought nothing for any of my friends.


	24. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claudia knows a secret that changes everything.

When I got back to my flat, I found Silke bustling round, setting things up as if she owned the place. She had, though, bought some milk, and was making coffee. >>Claudia will be here soon<< she told me. >>We are having the fitting for the dress. Are you in, or are you out?<<

>>I am in<< I sighed, realising that Flori had lied about his reason for leaving. If Claudia was coming here, he could not be meeting her in Golzheim.

Claudia arrived all in a great burst of noise and jollity and good humour, blustering about the place, delivering gossip almost at almost the same rapid-fire speed as her mother. >>Did you know<< she gushed >>That Anni's father has discovered that she has failed all of her classes - well, all except one, and who knows what Emil was thinking. Well, he was probably thinking that Anni is very pretty, is what he was thinking, knowing Emil. But Anni has failed the rest of her classes, and she wants to drop out of University to hang about and take drugs with Klaus! And her father - he is a very wealthy Swedish businessman, our father has done some work for him - he is absolutely furious. He is not blaming Anni, oh no, perfect little child that she is. He is blaming Klaus, he is blaming my parents for letting him stay with them, and he is blaming me, for introducing the pair in the first place! Oh god, can you imagine! What do you think I am, some kind of matchmaker, that I can control what a headstrong girl like Anni chooses to do?<<

>>Oh my god<< said Silke, pouring the coffee. Silke was absolutely ravenous for gossip, especially anything insalubrious that made her look less immoral by comparison. >>What on earth is he going to do? Go round your house, and storm the balcony, batter his way in through the French doors to get her back?<<

>>Do you know, that is precisely what he did? Ach, there was an awful scene. Trampled some of my father's precious fern collection. There was a terrible row. He says he will take Anni out of the country, back to Sweden, but Anni, she says she will kill herself if he does.<<

>>I did not know she had it in her<< mused Silke, sipping her coffee thoughtfully. >>It's always the quiet ones. You have to watch out for the quiet ones.<< She threw a meaningful glance towards me, and she and Claudia both laughed.

>>Right, I have finished my coffee, let's see about this dress<< said Claudia, putting down her cup noisily and rising to her feet.

>>The Atelier is upstairs<< I said, and gestured towards the stairs, opening the little closet door.

>>My god, this is like Alice in Wonderland<< laughed Claudia as I followed her up. >>My brother did not lie about you, at all.<<

I paused at the foot of the stairs as she climbed, wondering what on earth she had meant by that. What had her brother told her? I had thought the Alice in Wonderland thing had been a private joke between us.

>>Oh my stars, look at this space<< gushed Claudia when she reached the top of the stairs. >>I wish I had a studio like this! What beautiful work I would produce... I wonder if I could prevail upon my father to rent me an attic in the Altstadt!<<

>>What, as well as your luxurious apartment in Aachen<< I said quietly, hoping she wouldn't hear me, but she merely laughed.

>>It's not as luxurious as all that; Ralf has been telling tales, I see<< she giggled, oblivious to the fact that she had just been telling all sorts of tales about everybody else.

>>Right, right, here's the dress<< said Silke, coming up the stairs. >>I know already what the problem is going to be. Jan can wear it without a bra, as she is as flat as an ironing board. But you, Claudia, you have far too much of a bosom to get away with that.<<

>>This is not a problem, with the boys<< Claudia laughed, jiggling her breasts, and her laughter, like Flori's, was completely contagious, setting all of us to giggling. Anyone else who was that loud, all of the time, might have irritated me, but something about Claudia's magnetic charisma - or maybe her family resemblance to her brother - just made me relax and enjoy her bubbly conversation.

>>Yes, but for a dress-maker it is a problem<< Silke countered. >>I am going to have to build some kind of structure into the ruches at the front, to hold up your bosom.<< As Claudia took off her shoes, her jumper and and her shirt, Silke fussed with the fabric of the dress, getting ready to slide it over her head. >>You're nearly as tall as Jan, that's good. So I won't have to fuss about altering the hem of the train.<< Claudia put her arms up and Silke slid the dress down over her, pausing as Claudia kicked off her pencil-thin pegged trousers.

>>Oh, this is gorgeous!<< cried Claudia, turning this way and that to check out her reflection in a full-length mirror Silke had propped up in the corner.

>>It could come in at the waist, and be let out by the hips because you have a slightly different shape<< Silke mused, fetching a tape measure from the table. >>Now I need to measure you so I can build in a shelf-bra at the front. Jan, get a bit of paper and write this down.<<

It was an undignified procedure, but Claudia suffered it with good humour, joking and laughing the whole time. Finally, Silke took the paper from me and frowned at it, before going to her sewing basket and riffling through it, pulling out bits of felt and foam and dressmakers' tape.

>>I'm sorry, but I don't have anything the right size here<< she finally admitted. >>How are you fixed for time?<<

Claudia glanced at her watch. >>Oh, I can stay until 8 o'clock, when I have to meet Papa for dinner.<<

>>I can run to the dressmakers' shop and back in maybe 20 minutes, to fetch the right things. You're welcome to come with me, or you can stay here and chat with Jan. It's up to you<< said Silke.

>>Oh, I don't want to get all dressed again<< laughed Claudia, flopping down on the sofa, where I did not like to sit, for memory of Helmut. >>You go. I'll have coffee with Jan. If you don't mind making another pot, my dear?<<

>>OK<< I agreed, clattering down the stairs with Silke. I filled the coffeepot and set it on the stove as she gathered her coat and her handbag to dash off. But as soon as Silke was gone, I heard steps coming down the rickety stairs, and Claudia appeared in the kitchen, redressed in her trousers and her jumper. Perhaps I was slow, but as the coffee percolated, I realised that it wasn't her clothes that had kept her, but the desire for a private conversation with me.

>>You are such a good little home-maker<< she observed as I busied myself with the coffee cups, my back to her, trying to avoid any awkward conversations. >>You will surely make someone a wonderful wife.<<

>>I have no intention of being anyone's wife<< I said, I hoped firmly.

>>That's not what the Düsseldorf rumour-tree tells me<< she said in a sing-song voice.

I whirled on her. >>What has Flori told you? What?<< I demanded.

That provoked a smile like a cat stalking a small bird. >>I didn't hear it from Flori. _Someone_ told his entire band yesterday evening. So Klaus told Anni, Anni told Greta, and Greta told me. Düsseldorf is very small, you know. On the Rhine, sound gets around. <<

>>Well, it's a pack of lies. All of it. One lump or two<< I said, pouring out the coffee and hoping my hands weren't shaking too badly.

>>Just the one, for me.<< She accepted the coffee and swirled it round and round i its mug, still eyeing me. >>So you are not planning to marry, after Christmas?<<

>>I am not marrying Ralf Hütter, or anyone else!<< I snapped, then turned bright red as her eyes lit up, realising I'd been caught in a trap. She had been fishing for information. And now I had brought it up, I could hardly stick with my original plan of denying everything.

>>Why not? You two have been dating for some time. Ralf is a good catch. He's handsome, he has good prospects, and he's crazy about you. And you will need to marry someone, if you wish to stay in Germany, and continue working for that nice boutique on Königsallee when your student visa runs out.<<

I sat down at the kitchen table and swallowed my coffee sullenly, wondering how it could turn so bitter. She had a point - I had not even thought about how I would stay in Düsseldorf after June, but I knew, without even considering it, that I would, indeed, have to work out a way to stay. It seemed such a long way off. The silence grew so long and so cold that I knew I had to say something or I would appear very, very rude. >>Why are you so interested in Ralf anyway?<< I asked, deciding that changing the subject and going on the attack would be the best way of turning the conversation. >>Are you and Ralf so intimate now? I suppose it was very cosy, sharing that not-a-luxury-flat in Aachen a few weeks ago.<<

Claudia snorted with laughter. >>Ralf? And Me? Oh my god, fucking Ralf would be like fucking my own brother. Thank you, but absolutely not. You have absolutely nothing to worry about there.<<

>>Then why are you trying to convince me not to marry him?<< I stuttered.

Claudia tipped her head to one side, a painfully familiar gesture. >>But I have been taking the Devil's Advocate position that you _should_. <<

<Devil's Advocate?<< I said, putting my head into my hands and massaging my temples. All of these Schneider-Eslebens were as slippery as fish. Conversation with them was dangerous. I closed my mouth and my eyes tightly and said no more.

>>So why don't you want to marry Ralf Hütter?<< she probed, as casually as if she was asking me why I didn't want a slice of plumcake.

I pressed my fingers against my eyelids until I saw brightly coloured spots like the laser patterns at the show in the Kunsthalle.

>>Why don't you want to tell me? If your mind is so made up, what harm can it do to talk?<<

>>Because you are the biggest gossip in the whole Rhineland, and whatever I tell you will go straight back to your brother.<< I snapped, then quickly added. >>And from there to Ralf.<<

Her voice seemed to soften. >>You know, really. I'm not. I tell people only what is already common knowledge. When people tell me actual secrets, I keep them.<< She paused, to sip at her coffee. >>My brother trusts me. I have never told his secrets - well, not the important ones.<<

My stomach seemed to lurch, and my heart gave a little kick as the mental image of her brother floated up before my eyes. That hurt expression that had come across his face just before he left the coffee-house in the Altstadt, that very morning.

She reached out and pulled my hand from in front of my eyes, her touch gentle and reassuring on my wrist, her long elegant fingers so like her brother's. >>Why don't you want to marry Ralf?<< she said again, very softly.

>>Because I don't love him<< I said, all in a great rush, like the hiss of air from a punctured bicycle tyre. >>Because I'm in love with someone else.<<

Claudia's voice stayed very low, almost a whisper. >>Is it my brother?<<

I shook my head, trying to stop the awful flow of words that had escape my lips without my really having conscious volition over them. >>Please, Claudia, do not ask me this.<<

>>Are you in love with my brother?<< she repeated, a little louder, more urgently.

>>How can you ask me? Stop it!<<

>>Sweet Jesus Christ, I hope to God I am not wrong in what I guess, and I know I may ruin everything if I say this, but honestly, if I don't, no one else will...<< she muttered, then drew up her head so that her carriage was very erect. >>You don't deny it, do you? I think you _are_ in love with my brother. <<

>>Why? Why do you say that? Why do you accuse me of these things? What good would it even do if I confirmed, or denied it? I have no hope there and I know it!<< I moaned.

>>Because, you foolish little mouse<< she shot back, as if she had not intended to say so much. >>My brother is completely in love with you.>

I sat bolt upright, staring at her with terror-struck eyes. >>Why do you say this? Are you trying to trick me?<< I spat. >>How could you possibly know?<<

>>Because my brother tells me everything. We are very close, you know. He writes to me every week, because I am the only person he can confess all of his sins to. I know that he kissed you, in Ralf's broken-down car, two weeks ago, and he has been tearing himself up inside over it ever since.<<

I stared at her, feeling the whole fabric of my world starting to shift and crack and rearrange itself. >>Flori is in love with me?<< I repeated, barely trusting my voice. >>No, no, no, but he can't be. Why would he keep telling me to be with Ralf, then? Why would he have pushed me into that relationship? Why would he not have...no, no, no. I don't believe you. This can't be true.<<

>>Jan, you have to understand something about Flori. Flori is very, very generous. And he is the most loyal person you could ever imagine. When he loves someone, that's it. He loves them completely, and he loves them for life. And you know, he worships Ralf. He absolutely adores Ralf. Flori would do anything in the world for Ralf.<<

>>Even give up the girl he loves?<< I said bitterly, trying to fight back tears. No, I didn't believe it. I couldn't believe it. 

>>You have no idea how lonely Flori was, as a boy. We have always been very odd, since we were children. We have a crazy family, and we grew up so strangely. It was always easier for me to make friends, because I am a girl. But Flori found it very hard. When he joined the band, this was the first time in his life, that he had friends. Real friends. The first time that people became interested in him. Flori does not find it easy to communicate. But he could communicate with Ralf, through their music. It was like two very lonely little boys met, and fell in love.<<

>>I know that<< I said quietly. >>The Romantic-Friendship. They love each other. There is no woman that can come between that.<<

>>Flori fell in love with you, the first night you met. I could tell, just from the way he wrote about you. I'd never seen him talk about a girl that way before. He told me he met a girl who heard music the same way he did, and he had danced with her, and he asked me if I thought it was strange that he wanted to kiss her, a girl he'd known for one night, and felt like he'd known forever. And I thought, oh my god, it has finally happened. Flori has fallen in love. That girl was you, Jan, yes?<<

I nodded, barely trusting my voice. >>I told him I danced to cooling fans and engine noise. That motors sound more beautiful to me than symphonies. He was the first person that ever understood.<<

>>And then, the next letter, he tells me that Ralf is in love with this girl. And he says, that's the end of it. He was so convinced that you were in love with Ralf... I think because he has been so in love with Ralf for so long that he can't see Ralf through any other eyes except eyes of love. I told him not to be stupid, to put up a fight, to try to woo you if he liked you.<<

>>Then why didn't he?<< I moaned. >>Because he is content to let Ralf walk away with everything. That's what he told me on that stupid camping trick. That if he lets Ralf win the little competitions and triumph at the little battles, then he gets to win the really important arguments, the ones about the music. I'm less important to him than that bloody Power Station.<<

Claudia shook her head, that same quick burst I knew so well. >>No, don't you see? I think maybe you don't even know my brother. Flori truly loves Ralf. He wants Ralf to be happy. He is so generous, he wants Ralf to be happy more than he desires his own happiness. He knew Ralf was in love with you, and so he stepped aside. He thought you liked Ralf - and why not? Because Flori loves Ralf, everyone must love Ralf. He wanted the pair of you to be together, because he thought you'd both be happier that way.<<

I stared down into the dregs of my coffee. >>They tricked me you know<< I said sullenly, feeling my whole chest aching. >>The little business with the car and the hotel.<<

>>I know<< Claudia said quietly, though I knew, really, she had no way of knowing the whole business. 

>>I would never have gone with Ralf otherwise. Never. Please believe me! I didn't want him... not like that. He forced me.<<

Claudia looked suddenly very sad, like she had guessed something of the truth. >>When Flori wrote and told me what they'd done, at the time I thought it was so romantic and dashing, like something out of a screwball comedy. I believed him when he told me he thought you were in love with Ralf but too shy to act on it. But now I've met you... oh god, Jan. I'm so sorry.<<

I screwed up my eyes, too angry and hurt to speak. 

>>Flori didn't get it completely wrong, though, didn't he? The way the three of you went everywhere together, did everything together. It was love. But you weren't in love with Ralf. You were in love with _him_. <<

>>Yes<< I finally confessed, feeling that I could not start to cry or the whole of my soul would pour down my face with my tears. >>I was in love with Flori. I still am. I loved him from the first moment that I met him. You're right. I love Flori. I am _in love with_ Flori. << It felt so good to finally say it. I wanted to say it over and over and over again. I love Flori. I'm in love with Flori. Flori, Flori, Flori. Love, love love. The Beatles song seemed to echo over and over in the back of my head. I wanted to say it openly and honestly, shout it aloud the way that I could never say "I love you" back to Ralf. Oh god, Ralf. What the devil was I going to do about Ralf?

>>I knew it<< said Claudia, breaking into a laugh. >>I knew it from that night at the Kunsthalle that you first glared at me. No woman would glare like that at another being kissed, unless she was in love with the man that was doing the kissing.<<

>>Yes. Oh god, I am so sorry<< I broke out giggling, defusing the tension, to remember it. Flori hugging Claudia, Flori kissing Claudia and teasing her, like two siblings that told one another everything. >>I had no idea you were his _sister_. <<

>>You need to end things with Ralf<< Claudia urged, her eyes suddenly serious again. >>It's not fair to go on like this. Not to any of you.<<

>>Oh god, I don't know how...<< I shook my head desperately, dreading the conversation, knowing how Ralf would twist it all around and make it seem like I meant things I didn't. 

>>And you _must_ tell Flori the truth << she continued. 

>>Absolutely not... I can't...<<

>>If you don't tell him, I will!<< she snapped. 

>>Oh my god, don't you dare. Claudia, how can you... when I trusted you, I told you everything... you absolutely can not...<< But as I glared at her, I realised that my heart was lightening. Finally, at last, here was a way out. I smiled through the tears. >>Wait... yes<< I confessed. >>Actually, you are right. You must tell him. Tell him he had it all wrong. Tell him he is the one I love. He will believe it, coming from you.<<

>>Jan, come to the house tonight, and we will talk, all three of us together... Oh, blast no. We are meeting Papa for this wretched dinner tonight. No. Tomorrow, tomorrow morning, you must come... Oh no, our Mama will be there with her luncheon group...<< she stuttered, but as she grasped for a time and a place, I could hear footsteps up the stairs.

Silke burst in the kitchen all out of breath. >>I am so soooo sorry I took so long. They did not have your size of bra-cup at the first shop I tried, so I had to take the bus all the way to the larger haberdashery downtown...<<

Claudia rapidly changed the subject, as I turned away, blowing my nose and trying to stem the tears which were threatening to overcome my eyes. >>Oh, no problem at all. It gave Jan and I the time to have the most delightful chat, and get acquainted. Come and show me what you have bought, this is all so exciting...<< As she got up, she threw me the most meaningful of looks before sweeping Silke away, up the stairs.

I was so grateful for the diversion that the tears started to roll down my cheeks. Not to mention, grateful for the truth... Florian loves me. Florian loves me. Florian loves me. It kept repeating in my head until I didn't know whether to throw myself down on my bed and cry, or burst into peels of laughter. My face felt all hot, like I was blushing, or else catching a fever. But I felt both giddy with happiness and panicking with terror. Florian loves me. 

I barely remembered the rest of the evening. I must have spoken to Claudia and to Silke, but about what inconsequentialities I have no idea. I suppose I must have helped Silke with the tailoring, or else made dinner, and we must have eaten something, I know not what because everything I looked at, I just saw Flori's face. I went to bed. I slept. I have no idea how.

I woke up very early in the morning, and I went round my room, picking out Ralf's things. A pair of jeans. Those ugly white Y-front pants. Two black turtlenecks. About 3 or 4 phonograph records. That awful book by Thomas Mann I could make neither head nor tail of. I took all of those things, and I packed them neatly into a large shopping bag. I had a bath, and washed my hair, then I dressed, very plainly, in baggy trousers and a shapeless jumper I knew Ralf found to be very, very ugly. I had a cup of coffee, and ate half a bagel. And then I put on my shoes and coat, picked up the bag, and I walked over to the Berger Allee. Despite the inclement weather, and the low-hanging clouds turning the Rhine the colour of a bar of iron, I felt light, and free, and happy. This conversation I was about to have was not going to be easy, but it was necessary. 

Emil opened the door when I rang the buzzer. Good, so it would be harder for Ralf to throw some kind of scene if we were not alone in the house. >>Ralf!<< he called, and gestured for me to come in, leaving me in the hall as he shuffled back to his room. There was a strong smell of paint, so I guessed he was busy.

>>Liebling<< said Ralf, rubbing his eyes sleepily as he walked towards me. He had wrapped a dressing gown around his bare shoulders, but he had clearly only just got out of bed. >>How lovely to see you. Would you like some breakfast? We can go out if you'd like...<<

>>No> I said firmly, shrugging off his kiss. >>This won't take long.<<

Ralf frowned, but then smiled. >>Oh, OK. I know what you want.<< Turning around, he led the way back to his bedroom, but though he took off his dressing gown and lay back on the bed, his cock rising slowly towards me, I did not move to join him, standing in the middle of the room, looking around. 

This is the last time I will look out that view to the Rhine, I thought to myself. This is the last time I will look at these bare walls that, in the month and a half Ralf has lived here, he has not bothered to decorate. This is the last time I will look at those two neatly folded suitcases of clothes as he has still not obtained a cupboard or a chest of drawers or any furniture at all beyond the bed. I looked at Ralf's body, lying on the bed, and I thought, this is the last time that I will see him naked. He was not a bad-looking man. Since he had moved out of his parents' house, he had lost a great deal of weight, and his face was square and lean, rather than soft and puffy. He had nice eyes behind those severe glasses; nice hair, nice long, thick, slightly curly dark-blond-light-brown hair; and a pert mouth that would have been pretty, had he not sulked so much.

But I looked at him, and I felt nothing. No love. No desire. Not even any hate. I just felt nothing at all. >>I'm sorry<< I said at last. >>I've come to give you back your things.<< I placed the bag on the floor by the bed, just within his reach, though I made sure to stay outside that reach. 

>>Give me back my things? But why... oh, I suppose you don't have the space in that poky little room of yours. I told you before... you can stay here. Emil doesn't mind, not really.<< It hurt to see him so oblivious, but I just had to keep going until I was certain he understood.

>>Ralf, I can't stay with you any more<< I said, hoping my voice sounded calm and reasonable. >>I don't want to be your girlfriend. I don't want to go to Krefeld, and I don't want to meet your family at Christmas. Also, I _really_ don't want to marry you. <<

>>What?<< That got Ralf's attention, as he sat up and scrambled to pull his bedsheets about him. >>What are you saying?<<

>>I'm breaking up with you, Ralf. We're through.<<

>>But we've been so happy together!<< Ralf exclaimed, his face totally shocked, as if this were something he had never even considered in all his plans.

>>We've had some good times together. And you were happy, yes. That was obvious.<< I said snidely, but then relented, trying hard to be honest and direct. >>I'm sorry, Ralf. I tried so hard to be a good girlfriend for you. I truly did my best to make you happy. But I have had doubts for some time. Doubts that _I_ was happy in our relationship. And when you started... making all these hints and allusions about marriage, I knew for certain. I don't want to marry you. Not now, not at all. <<

>>Wait, wait<< sputtered Ralf. >>Who said I was going to ask you to marry me?<<

>>Everyone says it, Ralf. Flori says it, Michael says it, Myrthe says it, Greta and Anni and even Claudia say it. If Claudia is saying it, then it is completely common knowledge. I do _not_ want to marry you, Ralf. <<

Ralf looked outraged for a moment, then frowned as he realised he had been rumbled, then simply looked confused. >>OK. You don't want to marry me just yet... but can't we still sleep together? Can't we still _date_? <<

>>No<< I said firmly. >>I don't want to sleep with you any more.<< I hadn't wanted to sleep with him that last time, after the record release party at the Creamcheese Club, just like I hadn't wanted to sleep with him that first time, at the skiing chalet. But Ralf never seemed to care much about my wishes regarding sex. >>I am sorry to hurt you, Ralf. I do not wish to cause you sadness, though I know that this will probably be painful to you. But I am finishing with you, Ralf. Please respect that it is over. And I sincerely hope that we can be friends some day.<<

>>Wait, wait... we can talk about this, Chan...<< he protested, and started to climb out of bed. But then he realised he was naked, and started casting about for some clothes. 

<No, we can't.<< I backed out of the room, closed the door behind me, and fled. I left the house quickly, knowing it would not take Ralf long to dress, and I did not want him to catch me before I got outside. Without even stopping to say goodbye to Emil - after everything, I would actually miss Emil, of whom I had grown rather fond - I wrenched the front door open, flung myself through it, and heaved it shut behind me. 

Outside, it was raining, so I hung back a moment on the stoop, but the cold air revived me, and the rain felt good, like it was washing the streets of Düsseldorf clean, and me with it. Turning up the collar of my coat, I stepped out into the street. And as I was walking down the Berger Allee, away from Ralf, and out into the rest of my life, who should I see walking up, with the fur collar of his camel-hair coat turned up against the rain, but Florian.

Our eyes met, and we both stopped in our tracks. Fear washed across his face, but was quickly replaced by a spark that looked like hope. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead as he stepped forward. >>Is it true?<< he asked, holding out his hands, palm up. >>What my sister tells me this morning, is it really true?<<

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if anyone is still reading this, at this point, and I've kind of lost confidence in the story, to the point where I'm considering just ending it here and leaving it.
> 
> (This is probably 2/3 of the way through what I've written so far. The rest of it is the drama of What Happened To Kraftwerk over the course of 1971, during a period of intense change for the band. I was originally planning to write as far as 1974, to bring it up to date with the Kraftwerk we know and love, but given how little interest there's been... That seems like a foolish goal.)
> 
> So I might just leave it here. I might wait a week or two and update it up to the end of what's written so far, and leave it hanging at the end of 1971. I might even, if I could stop feeling so much like I'm just shouting into a void, finish it. But right now I'm severely lacking the confidence to go on.
> 
> Edit: thank you for the kudos! But I am confused as to the intended meaning of this kudos, in response to this note. What would be more helpful to me would be to tell me "I am happy for it to end here" or "I would like to read the next year of the story."


	25. Vom Himmel Hoch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florian and Jan are in love. Now what?
> 
> (Well, now you know where Florian's nick-name comes from.)

I took a deep breath and stepped towards Florian, not caring that rain was streaking down my face as I took his hands in mine. >>Yes, it is all true.<< I said, my voice no longer shaking, as it had been back at the flat, but completely calm and clear. >>I have finished with Ralf, for good. I don't want to be with him. I love _you_. I have always loved you. <<

He looked at me, that handsome, almost brutal face cracking slowly into his marvellous grin. Sheer joy flooded his silvery-blue eyes as he stepped towards me. He raised his hands, cupping my face between them as he gazed at me in wonder. Words failed him, but I saw everything in his eyes. What Claudia had said was all true. Then he lowered his face towards mine, and he kissed me.

Electric shock. Static electricity. The sound of fans whirring that was only my blood pounding in my own ears. Mouth. Tongue. Lips. His hands on the back of my head. The cold, cold rain, but my body felt so hot I was burning up. Florian. Kissing. His heart pounding so fast I could feel it through the camel-hair coat. At last. Love.

The Beatles started playing somewhere in the back of my head. Love, love, love.

It felt like Flori and I kissed forever, standing in the middle of the Berger Allee. Behind us, somewhere, deep in the past, I heard a door open. Two steps, out into the rain, then silence for a moment, then two steps back, and the door slamming.

After what seemed like an eternity, we finally pulled apart. His pale, silvery-blue eyes were shining and moist, his face still flooded with happiness. At last he spoke. >>I love you, but we can't stay here. We will catch our deaths of cold.<<

I nodded slowly. >>But where can we go?<<

Flori's eyes flickered towards his own front door. >>We definitely cannot go back to number 9, that is for certain.<<

>>Did he see us?<< I asked, terrified.

>>I think so, yes.<< A shadow of pain fell across his joyful expression. >>But Ralf is not stupid. I think he already knows. Can we go back to yours?<<

I shook my head. >>That tiny box room? You are too big to fit in the bed.<<

>>I would say, let's go back to my parents' house, but my mother has the entire Women's Association of Düsseldorf to Christmas luncheon.<<

I smiled at him, touching his face, his thin lips, his regal nose. >>So we are like two waifs, with nowhere to go to consummate our love.<<

He laughed, bending his face into my touch, letting me caress his cheeks, his strange, sticky-outy ears. >>I suppose we could always go to a hotel.<<

>>Like two adulterers<< I laughed.

But that seemed to give him an idea, as his face suddenly cheered up. >>Wait, I know. Come with me.<< Taking me by the hand, he strode back towards the main road, and flagged down a cab.

>>Tersteegenstrasse, in Golzheim<< he told the driver, then turned to smile at me. He was so beautiful when he smiled, I couldn't stop staring at him. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to brush his cheeks with my fingers, put my hands all over his face, just to make sure he was real. >>You are still staring at me<< he said, quietly, and squeezed my hand.

>>I like to look at you.<< The city sloshed by in the rain, streaks of silver and dirty grey, but all I saw was his face, those thick eyebrows, that long, noble nose.

>>You look at me as if you are afraid<< he said teasingly.

>>Maybe I am afraid you will jump out of the cab as soon as we stop for a light.<<

He chuckled, and squeezed my hand again. >>You won't get rid of me that easily.<<

>>Maybe I am afraid you are just a phantom, that will evaporate as soon as the sun shines again.<<

His eyes grew suddenly very serious. >>Jan, I am here for as long as you want me. As long as you want me, I will stay. And if you ever stop wanting me, just say to me, _Florian, please go_ , and I will go. I am not a mysterious or unpredictable man, in love. I am like a dog.<<

>>But what if I never stop wanting you?<< I whispered, clutching onto his hand like a lifeline.

He smiled, and it was like the sun coming out. >>That's OK, too. I... love you.<<

>>I love you, too<< I said, then stopped, almost breathless at how easy it was to say when it was true. I was almost tempted to tug at his hand, catch his attention and tell him this, too, tell him excitedly, _Flori, you do realise, I actually love you_ , but at that moment, the taxi pulled up into a side road, surrounded by tall office blocks on all sides.

>>Which number do you want??<< asked the driver.

>>That one<< said Flori, pointing off towards a large concrete block. >>You can drop us under that large entrance porch.<<

>>The one like a flying wing?<<

>>That's the one.<< Flori paid the man and we climbed out. I looked about me, disoriented, wondering what we were doing in what looked like a 1950s office park. Bewildered, I followed Flori up to the door, where he stood, looking at the complicated entry-lock system, with an intercom and keypad. >>Now what do you think the code is?<<

My maths brain stepped instantly to the fore, bypassing all of the confusion, when presented with a puzzle. >>How many numbers?<<

>>This style entry lock? Six. I think it would be a date, no doubt, as my father loves dates. I will try his birthday.<< He typed in a string of numbers and enter, but there was only a dull beep. >>It wouldn't be my mother's birthdate, considering this is where he brings his girlfriends...<<

>>Girlfriends?<< I asked, trying not to act shocked. >>Where are you taking me?<<

>>My father designed this building, and still has an office on the top floor. There is a penthouse apartment he thinks my mother does not know about. But... we all know.<< He punched another number. It beeped again. >>It's not my sister's birthdate either. What on earth could it be.<<

>>Try your birthdate<< I suggested. He punched in the keys - 070447 - and there was a long buzz, followed by a click. He pushed, and the door gave, to he turned to me and smiled, holding it open for me. >>You're younger than Ralf<< I observed.

>>Yes, by nearly a year.<<

>>I don't know why; you just seem more mature.<<

He smiled. >>I'll take that as a compliment.<<

We took a lift up to the top floor, then stepped out onto a sheltered balcony. There were stunning views all around, and in the distance, I could see the Rhine, still leaden and dark in the rain. It felt like we were on top of the high walls of a castle, or maybe even a ship, all adrift in the ocean. Flori walked along the terrace, as if he were counting flagstones, then stopped, turned, and tipped over a heavy concrete planter filled with exotic ferns. Smiling, he retrieved something from underneath, then held up a glinting metal key. >>My father is so predictable.<<

>>You are sure he is not here?<<

>>He is away, giving important lectures at the Hochschule in Hamburg, until the day before Boxing Day. My parents fought over it for weeks. My mother said it would put a crimp in her plans for entertaining; my father says he hates parties and Evamaria will find it easier to entertain without him to get in the way with his dislikes. But either way. We will be alone here.<< He walked to a minimalist modern door with "PSE" frosted into the glass, and let us in.

Inside was a large, well-lit office with windows on three sides. Everywhere there were blueprints, boxes of plans, books on architecture, even a few scale models. I recognised the Mannesmann Hochhaus, but I didn't recognise another globular sort of building that looked a bit like a chapel. On the large table in front of the window was a model of a huge, sprawling spider of a building made from plaster or white cardboard or something, and though it clearly stated "Köln-Bonn Flughafen" on the side, it didn't look like any airport that I had ever seen, with 6-pointed stars attached at the end, and long, spindly fingers that seemed to reach out and capture stray aeroplanes. But as I puzzled over it, I realised with a start that its odd design meant people could enter at one end, from the train station, and walk through the giant circuit of a building, out and onto the planes, without ever touching the ground or leaving the self-contained space. Paul Schneider-Esleben, that irascible man who growled at hippie guitarists and terrified me into muteness, he was actually a _genius_. I looked at the airport again, trying to imagine walking around inside it, disembarking from a plane, jet lagged and confused, before just striding through the long building and being swept into a train, all in efficient comfort. Only a genius could have come up with something so elegant, so complex, and yet so simple.

But I knew, intimately, how hard it was to have to live, as the decidedly odd, and ever so slightly disappointing child of a genius. When Florian reappeared, holding up another set of keys, I turned towards him, feeling my heart aching.

>>Come through, we will dry you off.<< he announced, with his patient and cheerful smile.

We walked down a passage at the back, then he unlocked another front door, and we stepped through into a long, narrow set of rooms that looked almost like a corridor, except one side of the walls was completely made of glass, looking out over Düsseldorf. >>It's beautiful<< I said, amazed by how different it was, being on the inside looking out, than it was on the outside, all that dreary distressed concrete, streaked grey in the rain.

For a moment, we just stood together, his arms around my waist, his sharp chin resting on my shoulder as we looked out over the city, glistening and silver in the rain. >>This is why my father loves designing Hochhausen. Everything looks more beautiful, from sky-high.<<

He kissed me tenderly on the cheek, then disappeared into another room. After a few minutes, he reappeared with a couple of towels. >>Here, dry your hair. I've turned on the heating so it should get warm in a little while.<< He took my coat from me, and hung it over the back of a chair by a radiator, then sloughed off his own. He laughed as I rubbed at my head, then he dug about in the towel until my face emerged, picking up a piece of the end to wipe a raindrop from my chin. >>You are so cute, Liebeling<< he said tenderly, but I shivered.

>>Please don't call me that.<<

>>It is just a term of affection, like _darling_. Loved one, it means. <<

>>It's what Ralf used to call me<< I said awkwardly, even as I slipped my arms around his waist to try to reassure him. It still felt so strange, this idea that I could actually touch him whenever I wanted.

>>Alright, little mouse, what would you like me to call you?<< Bending over, he kissed my nose.

I laughed. >>What is with this 'little mouse' business. There is nothing little about me.<< I put my arms around his neck and stood up on tip-toes to touch my forehead against his, to prove a point.

>>But that is precisely why we call you that. It's irony, you see. Because you are so tall, and mice are so very small. I thought the English were fond of irony.<<

>>I see.<< I frowned slightly, still unsure of when people were joking.

>>And mouse, I think, because you are supposed to be so quiet. Though I know you very well now, and I don't think you are so quiet. Or, at least, I don't think you're like a mouse, quiet because you have nothing to say. I think you are quiet because you are observing so closely, because you are trying to work people out.<<

I stared at him for a moment, surprised by how well he seemed to know me, but then I laughed with delight and kissed him again. I kissed his cheeks, his chin, his nose, and then his mouth, a long and lingering kiss that spoke of what I wanted next, as I pressed myself hungrily against him. I could feel the warmth of the heater coming on behind him, and it felt nice against my damp skin. But although he kissed me back with passion, and put his hands, gently, on my arse, he pulled away after a few minutes.

As he looked at me, his eyes worried, I started to wonder if I'd made a mistake, if I'd done something wrong, if he really was as into it as I had hoped. But then he tilted his head to one side like a bird. >>Little mouse, are you hungry?<<

I thought about it for a moment. Well, I was, as I'd eaten nothing since half a bagel at 6 in the morning, but there were more pressing things on my mind. >>A little, I suppose. But don't you want me to give you a fuck first?<<

Flori's head abruptly pulled back sharply. >>No, no, no. I do not like this manner of speaking. Please.<<

My face flushed. >>I'm sorry for the rude word.<<

>>No. It is not the rude word that bothers me. It is the way you say it. I do not want you to 'give me a fuck'. I want you to make love with me, because _you_ want to. << His face was very grave as he said this. >>Now. Are you hungry? Because I am very hungry. I would like to make you lunch.<<

>>Make me lunch?<< I asked, disbelievingly. I didn't think Ralf had cooked for me once, in all the time I had known him.

He smiled again, and it always melted my heart, the way his face lit up when he smiled, like the austere concrete building that was more beautiful from the inside. >>I am a pretty good cook.<<

>>What, like you are a 'pretty good' driver?<< I teased.

>> Don't you believe me? My parents taught me Mediterranean cuisine. We spend every summer in the South of France. My father has a house there. We grow vegetables and cook everything we grow.<<

>>Is there anywhere your father doesn't have a house?<< I quipped. >>I think your family collect houses.<<

He ignored the teasing, taking me by the hand and leading me through the corridor of rooms to a kitchen area. >>Come. I will show you. You sit, and I will make us lunch.<<

>>But...<< I was having trouble getting used to this idea. And, in fact, I was feeling more than slightly insecure. He had seemed so keen, kissing me in the middle of the street, and yet now his ardour seemed to have cooled. He was now far more interested in pulling down boxes of pasta and tins of tomatoes and small jars of spices than in me. Was this going to be like the kiss in Langenfeld, where he changed his mind almost as soon as it had happened. >>Do you not want me?<< I said in a small voice. >>Have you changed your mind about...<< I struggled for his preferred terminology. >>...about making love with me.<<

Flori suddenly turned from the kitchen cupboard he had been inspecting, and moved towards me, kneeling down on the floor by my chair, and taking my face between his hands. His eyes were absolutely penetrating. >>Not at all. I want to copulate with you more than you could possibly imagine.<< The sincerity in his eyes went through me like a shudder, despite his odd phrasing. >>But, you see, I never start anything new on an empty stomach. That is a very bad idea. One rushes, one makes poor decisions when one is hungry. We have the rest of the day, the rest of the night for love-making. So let me cook you lunch first. Let us eat together, then we copulate for the first time.<<

I smiled, feeling like my insides were all turning to jelly. >>OK.<<

True to his word, Florian was a remarkably good cook. Out of those tins of vegetables and boxes of pasta and small jars of spices, he somehow threw together a meal that filled the house with warm cooking smells and made the whole apartment feel very cosy, like a ship sealed against the storm. And it was indeed delicious, surprisingly so, though I realised as food touched my lips that I was so hungry I would have eaten anything. The two of us perched at one corner of the kitchen table, making eyes at one another and feeding each other bits of Fusilli, trying to work out if the red and the green and the white actually tasted different, or if they were just dyed. I'd never known another man so interested in everything, so distracted by details and curious to know things anyone else would take for granted.

>>I am sorry about all the garlic<< apologised Flori, putting his hand to his mouth. >>I have just realised it probably won't be very nice to kiss me.<<

>>I don't mind, I have had just as much as you have<< I laughed, and kissed him sloppily. He grinned, picked up a serviette and wiped away a smear of tomato from from my chin, where his lips had missed mine. He seemed constantly to be inspecting me - touching my face, pushing my hair aside to see my pierced ears, wiping an eyelash from my cheek - not in the sort of critical way that Ralf had done, constantly finding fault, but more in his endlessly curious way, just trying to work out how I was made. I liked it, to be honest. It made me feel less strange for wanting to show him the same kind of attention, looking intently at his fingernails, his prominent Adam's Apple, the convex curve of his sticky-outy ears. Everything about him was slightly strange, slightly mismatched, but together his features all made a beautifully harmonious whole.

When we were done eating, he stood up and loaded all the dishes into the dishwasher. I nearly fell off my chair. How unlike Ralf, who would leave the dishes lying around in the sink for days, until Emil fumed over them. It seemed odd, that Flori, who had grown up with servants all around him, seemed so self-sufficient and considerate. But finally he turned around, wiping his hands dry on a dishtowel.

>>Do you want a drink, before we go next door?<< he asked, his brow furrowed, as he dug a bottle of wine out of the cupboard. >>Are you very nervous? Because... well, because I am, a little.<<

>>I am very nervous<< I confessed, but I shook my head at the bottle of wine. >>But I want to be sober for this.<<

>>OK<< he said, then held out his hand. >>Come.<< I took it, and he lead me through the apartment, towards a sort of curtained-off alcove at the end of the suite of rooms. As he pulled the curtains open, there was a bedroom, shielded from the rest of the flat by the curtains, but looking out through the plate glass windows to an almost uninterrupted view of the city. >>Do you want me to close the curtains? I rather like the view, though.<<

>>No, it's OK.<< I looked at the bed, which was made as crisply as a hotel bed. >>Should we change the sheets?<< I asked, wondering about the mistresses, and not really knowing the etiquette of making love in someone's father's bed.

>>No, it's fine. The maid comes twice a week<< Flori shrugged. He walked over to the radiator and fiddled with it. >>I"ve turned the heating up<< he announced brightly in that strained voice that I knew meant he was very, very nervous. >>Do you want to...?<< He shrugged off his cardigan, then started to fumble at the buttons of his shirt. >>I guess we should undress?<<

I kicked off my shoes, then unbuttoned my trousers and slid them off my hips. My ugly jumper was so long it hung nearly to my knees, and I wished at that moment that I'd worn something more alluring. >>Are you excited, though?<< I asked, still not entirely believing that we were, really, going to go through with it this time.

>>Yes. Very.<< Flori nodded as he slipped his shirt from around his shoulders. His chest was very broad, which only seemed to heighten his thinness, and bisected by a long streak of dark hair that spread like a vine across his stomach, and rose in a thin line to his sternum. Each pale pink nipple was haloed by a crown of lighter hair. I couldn't help but compare; Flori's was a man's chest, unlike that pale, slightly underdeveloped, and completely hairless expanse of Ralf's. I took a deep breath and pulled my jumper over my head; I hadn't bothered with a shirt or even a bra underneath, and I heard Flori's breath exhale in a slight gasp as he saw my breasts.

>>You've seen me naked before<< I reminded him, with a nervous giggle, feeling my flesh flush everywhere his gaze glanced across it.

>>I was tripping<< he shrugged. >>Your flesh was marble, with veins of gold all shimmering through it.<< He moved towards me, running his hands down the outside of my arms, sending a slight shiver through me, his face full of wonder.

>>You don't have to do this, if you don't want to<< I whispered, feeling every hair on my body standing to attention, though not with fear or with cold.

>>No! I want to. Very much so. It's just... well, it's been rather a long time<< he confessed. >>And you are so beautiful I'm a little bit in awe of you.<<

>>It's just me<< I shrugged. >>Your strange old friend who likes engine noise and Jacquard cards.<<

>>That, too, I am a little bit in awe of.<< He bent down to kiss my collarbone, and a shudder went down my spine. Then he kissed my neck, my jaw, working his teeth gently down the side of my neck to where it joined my shoulder. Deep inside me, that growling insistent _wanting_ was springing to life again, sending little pulses of pleasure though me everywhere his lips touched me. Bending his head, he kissed first one breast, teasing my nipple to life with his tongue, and then the other. I moaned aloud, and tangled my fingers in his hair, never wanting him to stop. When he pulled away, smirking that wicked half-smile, I felt like I was going to explode.  >>Lie down<< he directed.

I did as I was told, backing onto the bed, pulling at the cover. Watching me very carefully with his silvery eyes, that great, pointed beak of a nose making him look even more like a hawk, he kicked off his shoes, then unfastened his belt and pushed his trousers off his hips. Even though the fabric of his boxer shorts, I could see how excited he was as he crawled onto the bed to lie beside me. We kissed again, trying to slide our bodies together as I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, caressing his hair, and he wrapped his arms around my waist. My legs went around his waist as his hands found my arse, pushing my knickers off and searching in between. I was already moist, but at the touch of his fingers, I found myself slick with wetness, crying out for him to push inside me.

>>Do you like that?<< he asked softly, rubbing back and forth at my lips with his fingertips. >>Do you want me to go inside?<<

>>Yes!<< I felt completely alive with _wanting_ , sucking at his mouth, sucking his tongue into mine and raking it with my teeth. His sharp hips pushed against my thighs as I pulled his boxers off, and felt for his cock, trying to guess his dimensions with my fingers, wondering if it was going to hurt, to take all of that inside me. We wrestled together on the bed, rolling back and forth, just grabbing and biting at one another's skin, kissing, sucking, touching.

>>That feels so good<< he breathed. >>Do you mind if I put another finger inside you?<<

>>Do it!<< My hand was around his cock; his long, elegant, fingers were pushed all the way up inside me. Little rivulets of pleasure seemed to be streaming out from his fingertips the way sound pulsed from his instrument. He was playing me, as skilfully as he manipulated his flute, my back arching towards him, every sense concentrated on the flesh sucking at his hand. But more than anything, I wanted his cock, pulling it towards me insistently. >>More<< I said.

He pulled away slightly, almost completely breathless. >>How do you want to do this?<< he breathed in my ear.

>>I don't know<< I moaned. >>Just get it inside me. Please.<<

He kissed my neck, sucked at my ear and nipped the side of my cheek. >>Do you want to go on top, or should I?<<

I had to stop and consider that. This was confusing, the way he kept asking me what I wanted. Not to mention, completely unlike the sex I'd been having, where Ralf just did what he wanted, to me, instead of bothering to involve me. >>I don't know.<< I confessed.

He lay back against the pillows, his silvery eyes looking into mine very directly, as if he could see all the way to the bottom of my soul. >>What do you prefer? What feels better for you? I want to do what makes you feel good.<<

Flopping down beside him, I just stared at him, reaching out to flick a strand of dark hair out of his face. >>I honestly don't know what makes me feel good. Just being with _you_ makes me feel good. <<

He made a face as if considering this, then smiled. >>I have an idea. You seemed to like it better on top, in Forst. How about you go on top, for now, and see how you like it. Then, if that doesn't work, we'll try again, with me on top. OK?<<

>>An experiment<< I laughed, as he lay back into the pillows, and I sat up, moving over to straddle him.

>>Yes<< he agreed with that ridiculous grin. >>We are scientists. Scientists of pleasure...<< But the jaunty grin turned to something darker, something more intense, almost a grimace of ecstasy as I found his cock and engulfed it, settling down onto him. >>God in heaven...<<

I moved lower, and found that I could take all of him inside me, though I felt full to bursting. It was almost on the edge of pain, but the kind of pain that made me want to move, slide him back and forth inside me, sliding my hips to adjust him to a more comfortable position, and every time I moved, it felt more and more pleasurable. His eyes were slits now, as he stared up at me, reaching up to touch my breasts. A memory came rushing back, the three of us tangled together at Forst.

>>Is this what you were thinking about, when you watched Ralf and I fucking, at Forst?<< I hadn't meant to ask it aloud, but it took all of my concentration, keeping the rhythm as I stroked downwards against him.

>>No<< he confessed, and his eyes opened wider, two silver discs rimmed with darker sky blue. >>I did not dare to imagine this. I was imagining _being_ you, and being penetrated by Ralf. <<

I should have stopped, I should have climbed off him and made him explain what he meant, but I was too far gone with my own pleasure, and my body was too close to orgasm. Perhaps, to be completely honest, I was even rather turned on by the idea. He lowered his hands, placed them on my hips, guiding me in my strokes, and then, suddenly, he sat up, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me with renewed passion. With greater strength than his thin limbs suggested, he lifted me, bodily, so that I could straighten out my knees, until I was sitting in his lap, my legs wrapped around him, and him bouncing me up and down on his cock. The pressure was intense, and just on the edge of pleasure and pain, until I felt my body starting to pulse and throb.

>>If you don't stop, I'm going to come<< I gasped.

>>Then you should come<< he said, quite reasonably.

I leaned backwards, feeling his strong arms encircling me, and let gravity do its trick. It was even stronger than that time in Forst, my body spasming again and again, feeling like all of my energy was concentrated on the tip of his cock, pulsing out in waves from me to him, up my spine and down my legs, everything quivering and raw. I gasped, unable to catch my breath, even as Flori sped up the timing of his thrusts, clutching me close, gritting his teeth and frowning with concentration as he continued to push. Another minute, another minute and a half. I couldn't take much more; I felt like I was going to split in two if he didn't stop. And then, finally, he gasped, his face growing hard, almost vicious, his nostrils flaring, his teeth bared.

Yet even then, his voice was polite as ever. >>May I come inside you?<<

>>It's OK; I'm on The Pill<< I said breathily, and he exploded. It wasn't until that moment that I remembered, I had gone on the pill in anticipation of exactly this.

Together, we rolled sideways onto the bed, collapsing in a tangle of arms and legs, neither of us able to breathe, as I felt the world spinning around my head. My body felt utterly demolished, that horrible hunger of _wanting_ finally quenched. I felt finally at peace, as our heads lay side by side on the coverlet, staring into one another's eyes. There was no darkness there now, just deep contentment and peace.

>>Are you alright?<< he asked, wiping away a bead of sweat from my forehead with the edge of his thumb.

>>I feel... absolutely demolished<< I confessed. >>I feel like I've been hit by a nuclear warhead.<<

>>Not a nuclear warhead<< said Flori, with a mischievous smile, as he caressed my hair. >>Just a good German rocket.<<

>>German rockets are not so good, to the English<< I said, kissing his nose. >>So this is why you like making airplane sounds so much with your electronics. I feel like I've been laid waste by a bloody V-2 Retribution-Rocket.<<

Flori laughed with delight. >>Yes, I feel this is accurate. A V-2, penetrating almost to the edge of space to bring you orgasm. Neeeeeooooooow... BOOOUGGGHH!<< As he made explosion noises, he moved his hand to between my legs, brushing against me in a way that seemed to set me off quivering all over again. >>There, that's retribution for Dresden.<<

I bit his nose, growing suddenly very silly. >>And that is for Coventry.<<

He laughed aloud, showering my face with kisses. His playfulness delighted me in a way I had not been expecting. >>I feel this is a much better way of waging war. Perhaps we should tell Michael and his peaceniks. I feel they would get further with this method than with demonstrations.<<

>>A _bed-in_ for peace. It's been done. << I laughed, stifling a yawn. I really did feel as though my entire body had been put through some extreme athletic event, and I was very tired, even though it was a happy sort of exhausted, the kind of tired I got going for long, enjoyable tramps over the Peak District.

>>You want to sleep? You should sleep<< said Flori, reaching down to the end of the bed and pulling the covers back over us. >>I am tired, too, after all that. Let's have a little nap, say twenty minutes, and then we will go again, yes?<<

>>Again? Oh my god<< I sighed, but let myself be drawn into his arms.


	26. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Paul Schneider-Esleben returns unexpectedly from Hamburg, he turfs Jan and his son out of the Hochhaus, sending them back into their own now-complicated living arrangements.
> 
> But hell hath no fury like a spurned Ralf, as he lashes out in an attempt to destroy both Flori and Jan's relationship, and the band itself.

Flori and I dozed together for about half an hour, then I got up, wrapped his shirt around me, and crept to the kitchen to make coffee. There was only instant coffee, with powdered milk, but Flori accepted it as if it were nectar, and downed it in one long gulp. I took a little longer, blowing on mine to cool it, but he had already started to kiss my shoulder, the inside of my elbow, the underside of my breast. Finally, I put the coffeecup down, half finished, as he pulled me into his arms, and started to make love to me all over again.

We were less hurried the second time, more leisurely, luxuriating in the feel of one another's bodies, though just as urgent. Again and again, he did things to my body that I didn't know I was capable of feeling. Every time I thought, that's it, that is the most pleasure a human being can possibly experience, he would apply hands or tongue or cock in a different way, and leave me reeling. Or was it just different because I was so in love with him, because even the sight of him made my pulse quicken and my eyes dilate? After a long, slow build-up, he teased first one orgasm from my body, then a second, then he held me down, stared deep into my eyes, and came himself.

The sun had gone down, and we just lay together, propped up on the pillows, looking out over the lights of the city, watching the skyline as if it were a film. I wasn't hungry, I wasn't tired, I was just sated and happy, knowing I had everything I'd ever wanted, clasped in my arms.

We slept, my face crushed up against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders, then woke with the dawn and did it all over again. If I had worried, the previous day, that he might not want me, now he finally had me, his uncooled ardour allayed my fears, as he seemed to enjoy it more and more as we became accustomed to one another's rhythms and desires.

Finally, after too much lovemaking, we crawled from the bed and took a shower together, laughing and rubbing soap into one another's skin. We had no clean clothes, so we dressed again in what we had.

>>I want to make breakfast, but there's no food left<< he sighed, looking through the fridge. >>There's a supermarket about half a mile away. I'll nip out and get something if you wait here.<<

>>Oh no<< I told him. >>I'm coming with you, to help you carry the things.<<

The weather had cleared, and though it was still bitterly cold, it was sunny and dry, so we walked hand in hand down the side of the road, laughing and trying to tread on one another's feet. The shop was a big, suburban supermarket, not like the little shops of Altstadt, and we had fun, pushing a shopping trolly around the aisles and squabbling over groceries like an old married couple. It just seemed so oddly wonderful to be doing completely normal, every day things together. Shopping. Carrying bags of groceries back to the apartment, both of us trying to take the heavy bags off one another. Cooking breakfast together. Reading the morning papers in blessed silence, each of us engrossed in our own section.

Flori knew how to be quiet, as well as entertaining. That, to me, was a blessed relief. As I went into the bathroom to wash my underclothes, leaving them to dry on the radiator overnight, he settled down with one of his father's books and just started to read. When I emerged, wrapped in an old dressing gown I'd found on the back of the bathroom door, he put the book down and looked up at me slightly sheepishly.

<Sorry<< he said. >>I know; I've been told it's rude to read when someone else comes into the room.<<

>>By whom?<< I demanded. >>It's not the slightest bit rude if the other person also just wants to read. Does your father have any English books?<<

>>A few, yes. But they're probably mostly about art history or architecture. Up there.<< He gestured to the top of the bookshelf, as I climbed up on a chair, and found a Country Life book about Hampton Court Palace.

He tried to move over to make a space for me on the sofa where he was lying, but I told him not to bother, as he looked far too comfortable. Instead, I pulled over a large wing chair, and propped my own feet up on the edge of his sofa. He just smiled, picked up my feet, and lifted them, until they were resting on his chest. Bending down, he kissed my toes affectionately, then folded my legs across him like a blanket, resting his book against my shins. I wanted to just die of happiness, as I dove into a chapter on late medieval tapestries in the Tudor era.

I lost all track of time. We did nothing but eat, sleep, read, and make endless bouts of languorous love. Day slid into night, and we didn't even leave the house, except once to go and get more milk. I felt completely safe, sealed away from the world. I didn't even want to go back to my flat to get more clothes. Hell, we didn't really need clothes, as we spent most of our time naked and lying on top of one another, pulling blankets over ourselves if we got cold. For two, three days, we didn't see another soul. The maid came while we were off fetching fresh milk, and changed the sheets and tidied up the flat, but was gone by the time we got back. How strange it was to live in a place where people one never saw did all the work, but Flori treated it as if it were completely normal.

We must have spent nearly a week never going out, just lying in bed watching late-night films subtitled into German. I grew to know his rhythms and his habits, marvelling at his odd little foibles, and wondering if I would ever stop finding them completely adorable. I kept waiting for the dream to end, to wake up one day and be sick of the sight of him, but it never seemed to come. Even Valerie, who I'd adored so much I'd agreed to live with her, I needed a break from her every now and then, and was so relieved when she would go out to the pub without me. But Flori - the more time I spent with him, the more time I seemed to want to spend with him. Being with him was, in a good, and whole, and healing way, like being by myself. I was happy, just knowing he was in the room next door, clattering about, doing the dishes in the kitchen. And I actually missed him - missed the smell of him, the presence of him - the few times that he went off to fetch a newspaper without me.

Yet after about a week, the idyll came to an end, as the real world came crashing in. We'd stayed up until 2 or 3 in the morning, watching the late movie, so we'd slept in late the next morning. Florian had kicked the covers off during the night, as he often did when he felt hot, but he'd turned around and clasped me from behind like a hot water bottle, his arm wrapped tightly around my stomach as he pressed his face into the back of my neck, as he often insisted he loved the smell of my hair.

But I became slowly aware that we were not alone. A presence - something - someone - was standing in the open living space between the bed and the window, blocking out the light as they stared down at us. Although I could not see their face, their posture indicated mild surprise. Trying to push the filaments of sleep from my mind, I nudged Florian with my elbow, through his arm was still too tightly wrapped around me to move. >>Flori? _Flori!_ <<

He woke with a start, but immediately pushed his face further into my hair, grumbling wordlessly at being woken.

>>Flori, someone is here...<< I nudged him again, and tried to pull my knees up to my chin to make my nakedness less obvious.

The figure straightened up, upon realising we were awake, and coughed gently, the voice decidedly male. Flori followed my gaze, and suddenly shot bolt upright, casting about for the blanket he'd abandoned, pulling it up and over both of us. >>Papa!<<

The figure retreated, dumping a suitcase on the sofa behind him, and as he moved into the light, I saw it was Paul. >>Well. Your mother will be considerably relieved to hear that you're not homosexual after all. We did worry...<< He paused, looking me over with an almost professional eye. >>Good-looking girl, I must say. Have we met before? You look very familiar.<<

>>At a pool party a few months ago<< I mumbled, clutching the blanket to my chest as I looked about for my clothes. My knickers were probably still drying on the radiator in the bathroom.

Flori scratched his hair and frowned. >>Why would you and Mama worry that I was homosexual?<<

Paul shrugged. >>You spend so much time with that boy with the trousers... Leather ones, awfully tight... wants to be an architect... what's his name...<< He clicked his fingers a few times before it came back to him. >>Hütter. That's the one.<<

>>We are friends, that is all that will ever be.<< Groaning deeply, Flori flopped back against the mattress and rubbed his eyes. >>Why are you home so early? You're not due back until Christmas Eve.<<

>>I'll be asking the questions here, young man. What are you doing, in my apartment, with the pretty girl... well, no, that part is obvious. But why are you _here_ , and not at that flat I'm paying for you and that degenerate Hütter to share?<<

Florian squirmed awkwardly. >>That situation's got a bit difficult. You see the pretty girl - she is called Jan - my lover, used to be the lover of that same Hütter.<<

>>You took a mistress off your best friend?<< Paul sounded half surprised, half impressed. >>Now that's just bad form, son.<<

>>Not a mistress<< corrected Flori. >>A lover, but... well, he wanted to ask her to marry him. But she didn't want to marry him. She wanted to be with me. So... we cannot be at the Berger Allee at the moment. It is not very... well, not very diplomatic, shall we say.<<

Paul stood with his weight on one hip, twisting his arm up around his head to scratch the rear of his neck. That, too, was an awfully familiar gesture. >>I see<< he said, after some consideration. >>Are you planning on marrying her, then? Oh god, Flori, do not marry for love, out of a moment's passion. That is a sure course for disaster.<<

>>I have no idea<< shrugged Flori. >>We have not even begun to discuss it.<<

>>I'm not marrying anyone<< I protested. >>And honestly, if you two are just going to discuss me like a piece of meat, do you mind if I get dressed?<<

Florian looked about, digging through the bedclothes, but my jumper was nowhere to be found. Finally Paul sighed, then walked over to some mirrored panelling I had just taken for vanity, and slid them open to reveal a closet. With a grand gesture, he removed a black silk nightdress from inside, and passed it to me with a flourish. I didn't even think about whose it might have been as I slipped it over my head, just relieved to be semi-decent again, though the garment had clearly been cut for someone with a much more substantial bosom than I had.

>>Look, I feel for you two kids, but this is _my_ apartment << Paul started to say, as he moved backwards and collapsed onto the sofa where Flori and I liked to lie with our feet up on one another's laps.

>>What do you need to be here for?<< Flori argued back. >>You haven't got a girlfriend here you need to be alone with...<< But then he abruptly craned his neck, looking about the flat to check that we were alone. >>Unless you're meeting one later.<<

>>I don't just come here to meet girlfriends, you know<< Paul responded rather testily. >>Mostly, I come here to get some peace and quiet from your _mother_. <<

Florian crossed his arms across his chest and glared at his father, looking suddenly much younger than his 23 years.

>>Don't you give me that look, young man! When you have been married for 25 years, and raised 3 kids while trying to build projects on 3 continents, then, my son, then you can give me that look. But until then... Christ, I suppose you two have drunk all my scotch, haven't you?<<

>>We've not drunk anything<< I protested, feeling very weird about being included, even tangentially in this conversation. >>And it's... wow, it's 10 o'clock in the morning. I'm going to go and put a pot of coffee on. How do you take your coffee, Herr Schneider von Esleben?<<

>>Black, no sugar, please. And it's _Paul_. << He beamed at being asked, then nodded at Flori as I walked away. >>Her? Her, I like. A bit skinny, but she's quiet. I like quiet. But look, I am sorry, but I am exhausted from the long drive back from Hamburg, and I need a rest. So I am going to have to take you two back to that rat-house on the Berger Allee. Unless you want a lift to your mother's house...<< To be fair, Paul did not look very enthusiastic at this idea, either, though perhaps he was only using it to scare Florian into going to his own home.

>>Evamaria doesn't like me very much<< I called back from the kitchen. >>We should go to the Atelier.<<

>>Nonsense<< called back Flori. >>She thinks you are very talented. She will just never think anyone is good enough for her children.<<

I rolled my eyes to myself, and fell silent as I set to the familiar ritual of making coffee, leaving Flori and his father to sorting out the arrangements for Christmas. >>You are not excused Christmas dinner, you know<< said Paul, quite firmly. >>You may bring the girl if you like - presuming she hasn't got family of her own to go to. She's foreign, from the accent, yes? Dutch? Belgian?<<

>>English<< said Flori defensively.

>>Ach, English girls are so repressed, Flori, don't fall in love with an English girl, the English are all so weird about sex...<<

I closed my ears and tried not to hear the rest. As the coffee percolated, I went in the bathroom and shut the door. There, thankfully, were my abandoned jeans and jumper, cleaner after a wash, and now quite dry after a night on the radiator. I didn't want to rinse the smell of Flori from my skin, so I just washed my face, wet my hair to tame it, then dressed quickly. Then I went back to the kitchen, made three coffees and brought them through on a tray. As Flori took his coffee from me, I surreptitiously slipped him his pair of boxer shorts, and he smirked at me.

>>So where is your... _Atelier_ , child?<< Paul asked, pronouncing the word with faint irony as he blew on his coffee to cool it.

>>Altstadt<< I supplied, sitting on the bed next to Flori. I didn't particularly like being called a 'child' but I supposed it at least granted me humanity in the way that _little mouse_ did not.

>>And what do you design in this... Atelier?<< I had the distinct impression he was toying with me.

>>Textiles<< I replied very bluntly.

Paul laughed. >>With these one word answers, you are just as bad as my son... well, no, I suppose you are just as bad as each other. I wish you every happiness together, you two silent lumps. Now come on... get dressed.<<

It was strange to be driven in the Mercedes by someone who actually knew how to handle it. As I sat in the back, watching Florian in the front sullenly refuse to talk to his father, I was surprised to discover that it was actually a smooth, steady, reliable car that handled corners beautifully, rather than the flying deathtrap it became under Flori's command. When we reached the Altstadt, I had to give Paul directions, but kept them minimal, and became almost a kind of game to see how much information he could extract from such tiny pieces of speech.

He squinted up at the gable as Florian and I climbed out of the car. >>Out of the goodness of my heart, I will give you two a ride up to Golzheim to make sure that you both make it to Christmas dinner. I'll meet you back here at 4.30pm on Christmas Eve, yes? And I'm counting on you, Jan, to make sure Flori isn't late, as he habitually tends to be.<<

>>Thank you for the lift<< said Flori stiffly, and walked off. I turned to thank Paul, then decided on a semi-apologetic little shrug to say that I was not the boss of Flori, and darted off after him.

He had rung the doorbell, but there was no one home, so I unlocked the door, and we climbed the stairs together. Upstairs, on the kitchen table, I found a note from Myrthe printed in neat but hasty Dutch.

_JAN!!!!_  
_I have no idea where you've gone or when you'll be back. I can only suppose you've gone somewhere - Krefeld? - for Christmas. Anyway, I, too, am off to Delft for a week, but I'll be back on Boxing Day for the Kraftwerk gig! But I warn you, Michael may be in and out all week so don't think of this as a chance to walk about in your knickers!! Wherever you are, I hope you're having fun. Have a lovely Christmas! Much love! Kisses!_  
_Myrthe Van Alst  
_ _P.S. Oh yes, I nearly forgot. RING SILKE. At her parents' house. She has been looking for you but she won't be back until the New Year._

There was an unfamiliar telephone number in Frankfurt scrawled across the bottom of the page.

>>Well<< I said to Florian with a worried frown. >>If she thinks I'm in Krefeld, that means the news about you and I has not spread.<< For once, I was hoping that the Düsseldorf rumour mill had taken care of news I did not want to have to deliver. >>We can stay here, but Michael will be in and out.<<

Florian walked to the door of my room and opened it, frowning at the tiny single bed inside. >>May I use your telephone?<<

>>Of course. Silke pays the bill, but you can leave her some money in the tin.<<

>>I should collect some clean clothes if I'm going to stay here, but...<< He let his voice drift off, as I realised how loathe he was to call his old flat.

>>Maybe you'll get Emil<< I suggested. >>Perhaps he can bring some things down for you, so you don't have to go in person.<<

>>Yes, you're right.<< Flori brightened, but then turned to me. >>Come upstairs with me?<<

I nodded. I would have wanted to have the conversation in private, but I understood why he wanted to solidarity of my company. As he dialled, I fussed about with my things, clearing up the profusion of yarns and Jacquard cards I had abandoned so suddenly when my life had abruptly changed.

>>Allo? Allo, is that Emil?<< Relief flooded Flori's face. >>Yes, it is Florian here. How goes it with you?<< There was a pause, but I could not hear the voice at the other end of the line. >>Look, it's probably for the best if I don't come up there for a bit, but I was wondering if you could just...<< Another pause, as the insect buzz of Emil's voice in the receiver grew more animated. >>What?<< Surprise registered on Florian's face. >>What do you mean, gone?<< Surprise turned to alarm as Emil's voice chirped again. >>Everything...? Well, his suitcases, I would expect, if he was returning to Krefeld. His mother will always do his laundry, but...<< Another pause. >>The sheets from his bed, also gone?<<

I made a face, remembering how Ralf never changed his sheets for weeks, maybe even months at a time. >>What's happened?<< I whispered, though it was already obvious from only one side of the conversation.

Florian moved the receiver away from his mouth slightly, to whisper >>Ralf's run away.<< But then his attention snapped back to the voice at the other end of the line. >>What? A note? Well, read it to me.<< Another pause, as Florian's face grew irritated. >>What on earth do you mean, _taking sides_? There are no _sides_ here. Just read me the note, Emil. << A small pause. >>Then open it... No, I am _asking_ you to open it! << He shook his head, his thin lips curling with irritation. >>Alright, then it seems we will have to come up.<< Another, shorter pause. >> _We_. Zhan and I. << As Emil's voice grew louder, Flori seemed on the edge of getting properly angry. >>You do realise that Zhan is an independent person who is quite capable of making her own decisions! ... Yes. ... We will see you this afternoon then.<< He slammed the phone down with slightly more force than was necessary, and dug in his coat pocket for coins he chucked into Silke's tin.

I bit my lip ruefully as I realised the probable content of the other half of that conversation. >>I'm sorry<< I said quietly. >>You know, if it's awkward... Well, I can stay here. I don't have to go with you, if it would make things difficult.<<

But Florian turned back towards me, his eyes growing large with fear. >>No. If you please. I _need_ you to come with me. <<

I nodded, then got up, went to him, and put my arms around him. I had got so used to thinking of Flori as unperturbable and strong that I wished I could press some of my newfound strength back into him. He accepted the embrace, laid his cheek gently against the top of my head, and kissed my hair.

It was a strange walk to make, the familiar paths through the city completely and irrevocably altered by Florian's presence beside me. He took a short-cut, walking west to the river, then striding straight down the Rhine walk, the last streaks of the sunset lighting our way. The dark came down so early, and when I looked up at a city clock, I saw the date. The 21st. The shortest day of the year. I squeezed Florian's hand through his thick leather gloves. "The Solstice" I said quietly.

>>Sonnenwende<< supplied Flori. >>Maybe we should do some ritual.<<

>>A time of endings and new beginnings.<< I intoned, shivering against the cold wind blowing off the river.

The back of the house was dark, but as we walked around to the street, we saw the lights were on in Emil's windows. I wondered if we should knock, but Florian strode up to the door and put the key in the lock. Grasping the bull by the horns, he called out. >>Emil? Emil, we are back.<<

I could tell by the strong smell of paint that this was not a good time, but Emil appeared after a few minutes, his hair tied back in a ponytail, and a mask over his mouth. He looked at me almost warily, then moved his gaze swiftly on to Florian, gesturing with the nozzle of his airbrush as he pulled the mask aside to speak. >>These girls, they're all the same. I thought this one might be different, but she's as bad as Silke. Your note's on the kitchen table.<<

As Flori walked off, I turned to look at Emil with mingled hurt and pity. We looked at one another for a long time, but as he turned to go, I spoke. >>I am sorry that Silke broke your heart. For what it's worth, I think she behaved badly, towards you, and I believe how she acted was wrong. But please do not conflate her... _career_ choices, with my following the calling of my heart. <<

>>Your heart?<< sniped Emil. >>I think these urges come from further down.<<

I shook my head slowly. >>I know my heart, and I think you do, too. You were there the first night Flori and I met, you saw the spark between us. Everyone did, except Ralf. It was Ralf, and his urges from lower down that caused this mess, not I.<<

Emil's face rumpled with distrust. >>Oh yes. I also know that the Schneider-Eslebens are much, much wealthier than even the Hütters. Why would you marry the son of a surgeon, a nouveau riche family who made their money in textile trading, when you could marry into the wealthy, socialite Schneider Von Esleben clan?<<

I stared at Emil, trying to comprehend this way of thinking. Maybe this was a trial I would have to face again and again over the next few months, but from Emil, it hurt. >>Have you never been in love, Emil? Not in stupid, giddy, selfish lust, but in genuine, selfless, illogical love?<<

Emil's face changed completely, from arrogance and mistrust to the ghost of anguish, but then shutters of impervious blankness seemed to fall across his eyes, and he spun on his heel, and turned away from me, stalking back into his room and slamming the door behind him.

I walked through the rest of the house. It had once felt so familiar to me, but now it felt like a hostile stranger. Florian was not in the kitchen. Nor was he in his room. With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I crossed the hall and stood at the threshold to that room looking over the Rhine, that I had hoped to never enter again. And there, sitting on the now-bare mattress in the empty room, sat Florian, looking more forlorn than I had ever seen him before, the letter crumpled in his hand.

I went over and sat beside him, but his eyes were vacant, he did not see me. >>What does it say?<< I asked, though I had a sickening feeling I already knew.

>>Read it for yourself.<< He passed it over, and I squinted as I tried to decipher the familiar cramped German scrawl.

_Florian._

_I write this with a heavy heart. No - actually I do not think that your cold, unemotional nature will ever properly understand the weight of emotion encapsulated in the word 'heavy'. I write this with a heart which has been laid bare and devastated and utterly destroyed by your coldness, as much as the actions of the English Girl._

_To lose a woman, that is a sorrow, but it is a sorrow that can be borne. But to lose my best friend, to lose the brother of my heart, my partner in music, in life, in all things. That is not something I can bear. I trusted you, Flori. I trusted you in everything. You assured me, again and again, that I had nothing to fear from you regarding that girl. And now it is you, my best friend, that has betrayed me with the woman I loved. I can bear losing my trust in her; I know that women are unreliable and untrustworthy in all things. I cannot bear losing my trust in you._

_And so I must go, don't ask where. Do not try to follow me or change my mind. I am resigning from Power Station, effective immediately. I know, you have already said that you will continue the band, with or without me, so I will not try to stop you. I will tell no one the true reason for my leaving, though I'm sure those close to us will be able to guess._

_I wish I could bring myself to hate you, for what you have done to me. But I still, albeit with so many mixed emotions, love you. (Though it is obvious from your actions that you feel no such tenderness or respect for me.) I just cannot be near you, now, or ever again._

_Ralf_

Not knowing what else to do, I put my arms around Flori, and felt him stiffen in my embrace. >>No, Flori, don't.<< I sighed. >>Don't let him do this.<<

>>He's right, I am a shit. I did promise him I would leave you alone. Several times, after accusing us of flirting. I went back on my word.<<

>>Flori, don't start. This is what he wants to do, to drive a wedge between you and me, by leaving. He knows he's lost me. But now he wants me to lose you, by forcing you to choose between me and him. You don't have to choose, Flori... or, at least, I'm not going to make you. So don't let him force you to.<< After months of dating Ralf, I had started to understand exactly how manipulative he could be, and it scared me.

>>What do I do?<< He turned towards me, his silvery-blue eyes wracked with pain.

>>Give him time?<< I suggested, grasping for words. >>Let him sulk. Let him be broken-hearted, and then heal.<<

>>I just wish I knew where he is... I wish I could go to him and say... well, I don't know what I'd say. I have no intention of leaving you, not for anything. I'd just say I'm sorry we hurt him, I suppose.<<

>>But you know where he has gone.<<

>>Do I?<< Florian looked perplexed as I smoothed back his hair. >>Should I ring his parents in Krefeld?<<

I shook my head, not really sure how I knew, but certain that I was right. >>He's in Aachen. I guarantee you, if you ring his parents, they will tell you he has been offered a place in the Accelerated Preparation Course for the Architectural Exam.<<

Florian thought about it for a moment, then exhaled a sigh of relief. >>Do you know, you are almost certainly right.<< And then, and only then, did he allow himself to collapse into my embrace, wrapping his arms around my waist as he leaned his whole body against my chest like a small boy seeking comfort. I held him tight, and I stroked his hair, and whispered his name to him softly, as one might console a frightened animal.

But we did not embrace for long, as I soon heard heavy footsteps in the hall, retreating to Flori's room before heading back. Finally, Emil's head appeared in the door. >>Oh god in heaven, if you two are going to fuck, can you please close the door, at least?<< he snarled, staggering back and pretending to put his hand over his eyes.

>>We are not fucking<< said Florian, disentangling himself from me as he straightened up. But as he pulled away, I noticed two damp patches on my jeans. >>We are crying.<<

That pulled Emil up sharp. >>Crying?<<

>>It's Ralf<< said Florian, keeping his voice dispassionate, though I could see his jaw quiver. >>You are right, he's gone. He has quit Power Station and moved out.<<

>>Moved out...<< sputtered Emil. >>But... but... that little shit hasn't paid me the rent for December yet!<<

Florian stood up and moved over to the end of the bed, picking up his heavy coat and digging through the pockets until he found his chequebook. >>I will pay his December rent... and his January rent, as well, as that will give you time to find a new housemate.<<

>>Florian, you don't have to...<< ventured Emil, but Florian cut him off, handing over the cheque with a flourish that now seemed very familiar, after I'd spent time with his father. Money was their way of making things _go away_.

>>Since I am the cause of his leaving, I will clean up the mess<< sighed Flori.

>>If you could clean up the mess he left in the kitchen, I would be more grateful...<< quipped Emil, whose mood seemed to have lightened somewhat now the money business was accounted for.


	27. Heiligabend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan spends her first Christmas Eve with the Schneider-Esleben family. This brings an unexpectedly generous gift from Paul, and some disconcerting home truths from Claudia.

We did not hang about the Berger Allee for very long. I think, for both of us, the place had picked up unpleasant associations. Florian packed a small suitcase of his clothes, selected some books and some sheet music, and we carried it all back to my apartment - stopping on the way for coffee and cheesecake at his favourite cafe. We were the only people in there, and the waitress made a bit of a fuss over us, so we decided to stay and have our dinner there. We had, of course, left the fixings for a perfectly good dinner back at the penthouse in Golzheim, but it seemed Paul would be the sole beneficiary of that.

Back at my home again, Florian tried out the cramped single bed, but the room distressed him, and he said it felt too close, like a coffin. So we carried the pillows and bedclothes upstairs to the atelier, and bedded down on that creaky, rickety sofabed that still reminded me of that awful photographer Helmut. But of course Flori didn't know about Helmut, and he offered to go on the bottom and deal with the squeaky uncomfortable bedsprings, and soon we had set about creating our own erotic memories with which to replace the ones I did not wish to revisit.

He lay on the sofa reading, as I worked. I didn't really need to weave over the Christmas holidays, but I found working on the loom relaxing, especially now that I knew Silke would not snatch my fabric as soon as I finished a few yards. Flori discarded his book and just watched me, fascinated by the loom, his eyes following the thread as it tacked back and forth across the frame. Whenever I was doing something interesting, he was always just like a cat, the way he would come over and sit by me and stare at my hands, trying to understand what I was doing. Though he would usually stay very silent, just observing, eventually I would give in and ask him if he wanted me to explain.

>>Oh, I don't mind<< he would usually shrug if I was coding, or doing something he could work out. But that afternoon, clearly flummoxed by the machinery, he immediately started sticking his curious nose into the workings of my loom. >>And what does this do?<<

>>Don't touch the spool...<< I warned, batting his hands away.

If he had a tail, it would have been twitching as he watched my hands work back and forth over the frame. >>Spool<< he pronounced carefully. _Schpul-uh_ , it sounded, with that sibilant German S. >>I like this word, _Spule_. <<

>>If you tangle the threads, the fabric will be ruined. Warp and weft need to align perfectly, or it doesn't work. Like so.<< Back and forth the frame worked, with a clunkety-clunk, clunkety-clunk kind of rhythm.

>>You told me about this, a long time ago. I remember the discussion, in your dormitory room, about the machine grid of the fabric, and how it needed to fray to fit the human form.<< His eyes continued to follow the spool, as I smiled at the memory. >>That was such an interesting conversation, I am glad that now I have had the chance to see the loom in action.<<

>>I can't believe you remembered.<< It pleased me, though, that he had enjoyed the flirtation as much as I had, feeling my face flush, remembering his hands distractedly playing with the hem of my dress.

>>It's hypnotic, watching it go up and down.<< And so, he spent a whole evening, pretending to read his book, while watching the fabric wind round the larger spool at the bottom of the loom.

We used my bedroom as a temporary closet to store our things, and a sort of dressing room, as it was closer to the bathroom, and better heated than the atelier upstairs. Florian marvelled at how many clothes I had managed to accumulate in only a few months in Düsseldorf, though I assured him they were inexpensive second hand shop finds, mostly from the charity shops around the university.

As he cast his eye intently over my wardrobe, I cringed, half expecting him to start in with those annoying little comments that Ralf had specialised in, but what he eventually came out with surprised me. >>Zhan, you understand about clothes, and style. Properly, I mean.<<

>>Well, yes, a bit<< I laughed. >>I'm not as good as Silke or Myrthe, as I'm only a textiles student, but obviously I've learned a lot about cut and fit and style from them, as much as my classes.<<

His face grew very serious, as he looked through my things with the close interest of a scientist. >>You have a very good eye. So I want you to help me... with clothes.<<

>>What, you want me to help you shop? Or dress you, or... what do you mean?<< As I looked over at Flori, I had a sudden vision of him as a male Marlene, a six-foot Schneiderpuppen to be draped with masculine finery. God, he would look fantastic in a wide-shouldered suit, neatly nipped in at the waist to flatter his tall, svelte silhouette.

>>I want you to teach me about style. I want you to help me select clothes that, well... look attractive to you.<< His face suddenly took on a very vulnerable expression. >>Please, don't make fun of me for not knowing. But you are a very attractive and fashionable girl, and I would like to dress in a way that pleases you.<<

I had to put my hand over my mouth to avoid laughing, as I knew he would not interpret it as the mingled delight and amusement I felt. >>Flori, you look beautiful to me, no matter what you wear. But if you want me to help you work out what _your_ style is, the kinds of things that suit you, or that you would like to wear, then yes, I would be happy to help you. <<

He beamed with relief, and started to inspect one of my silk shirts. And so began a long-term project of teaching Flori about clothes. After a few days of shopping together, I found that he was, quite instinctively, a keen clotheshorse, who actually enjoyed trying different styles, as opposed to Ralf, who had definitely tended towards finding one thing he liked - those leather trousers, his endless black turtlenecks - and then wearing them until they fell to pieces. Flori enjoyed experimenting, though he, like me, was drawn to clothes by their texture as much as their appearance. Linen, he loved, and also silks, though he couldn't stand anything in the modern, artificial fabrics that were very much in style. He loved a dark grey chunky wool cardigan I bought him in an old fashioned men's shop, but refused a lighter version in a pale blue colour that suited his eyes, because he claimed the acrylic wool was 'itchy'.

But more than anything, he loved the orange satin trousers I had been wearing on our ill-fated trip to Köln. He tried to beg me to wear them to Christmas dinner, though I refused, on the grounds that they didn't really fit, and I wanted to wear something more flattering. But finally, when he would not give up, I told him >>If you love them so much, why don't you wear them?<<

>>All right<< he said, grinning, and closed the door. After a few minutes of shuffling noises and murmured delight, he flung open the door and slunk out, swinging his hips like Silke on the catwalk. They fit him like a glove, rendering his long, thin legs oddly feline. >>What do you think?<< He prowled through the apartment to the bathroom and looked at himself in front of the full-length mirror. >>I can't seem to stop wanting to touch them. They feel so nice against my legs.<<

>>I think, if you wear those onstage<< I laughed, marvelling at my lover's beauty. >>That every girl in Germany will want to touch them, too.<<

>>My god.<< Flori looked mildly alarmed. >>You will have to come along on the tour to protect me!<<

I burst out laughing, even as he wandered back to look at himself in the mirror. >>Come here.<<

He did as he was told. >>What is it?<<

Encircling him with my arms, I pulled him towards me, and rubbed my cheek against the soft satin, feeling him growing hard beneath. >>I want to try something<< I told him, unzipping the flies and taking him softly, gingerly into my mouth.

>>Oh god<< gasped Flori, leaning forward into me, tangling his fingers in my short hair as he wheezed with pleasure. And as my head bobbed back and forth between his thighs, I suddenly realised how Silke could indeed find this an enjoyable alternative to being bounced about on that lumpy sofa. I wanted to experiment further, but Flori simply could not last that long. He reached down with his fingertips and gently raised my head to stare into my eyes with wonder and amazement as his organ pumped its load down my throat. I coughed slightly, but swallowed quickly, wanting to laugh at the look of total sated surprise on his face. >>So<< he said brightly. >>I take it you like the way the trousers look on me. You don't think they're too tight.<<

I giggled, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as he stuffed himself back away. >>I think they're perfect. I want you to have them. My early Christmas present to you.<<

Flori smirked as he caressed the side of my cheek with his hand. >>I think... for my actual Christmas present, on Christmas morning? I want you to do that thing with your mouth that you just did, again.<<

>>At your parents' house?<< I snickered.

>>Just so<< he agreed, fondling my hair. >>Perhaps just after supper and before the big family gift exchange.<<

>>Oh my god.<< Covering my hand with my mouth, I stared up at him.

>>Well, no<< he stuttered. >>Obviously not in front of my family _at_ the big gift exchange, but... <<

>>No, no, that's not what I meant. I did not realise there would be a big gift exchange. I must get presents for your family.<<

We went shopping on the Kö literally two days before Christmas, and I was astonished to discover that the entire central shopping district of Düsseldorf had been transformed into a kind of outdoor market, a whole village of little stalls set up in wooden shacks decked out to look like forest-dwellings. The smell of food, and of hot mulled drinks was so tempting, combined with sparkling Christmas lights and the promise of magical wonder in the charming impromptu shops. I was completely entranced, and although Flori had initially pooh-poohed the idea of Christmas Markets, I think he ended up charmed by how captivated I was. I managed to find both little trinkets for my friends, but also appropriate trifles to give to his family so I didn't feel so much like a freeloader on Christmas Day. Two parcels arrived for me in the post, one, heavily battered, from South Africa, the other just square and heavy, from Manchester. I popped them both in the large shopping bag full of presents that we were taking to Florian's parents' house.

Strangely, I was actually excited about spending Christmas with the Schneider-Eslebens in a way I had been terrified of doing the same with the Hütters. Maybe it was just familiarity, that I already knew and liked Claudia, who would be an ally to me, and had come to be at least amused by, rather than too intimidated by Paul and Evamaria. The weather had turned, a sudden cold snap, complete with flurries of snow, though the flakes did not stick. Walking through the magical winter-village alongside the canal, my arm threaded through my lover's, laughing as snowflakes melted on his eyelashes, I heard a snatch of _Silent Night_ from a chorus of carollers, and felt suddenly happy and in love with the whole idea of Christmas.

So yes, on Christmas Eve, I actually bundled up Flori into his dark formal suit, and did not let him dawdle too long over coffee, wrapped him up in his warm coat, and actually got him outside, down on the pavement, by twenty to five. The dark blue family Mercedes was already waiting on the corner, Paul in the drivers' seat with Der Spiegel spread out across the wheel, as if he were prepared for this to be a very long wait.

>>I'm sorry we're late<< I apologised, as I pushed a recalcitrant Florian into the front seat.

>>Late?<< Paul looked up, startled. >>You're early. I was not expecting my son for another twenty minutes at least.<<

>>Oh<< I laughed. >>Well, Happy Christmas.<<

>>And Happy Christmas, to you two, as well. But, before we go, I have two gifts I wish to bestow, without your mother seeing them. First...<< He produced a small, long, thin velvet box from inside his coat. >>For you, son.<<

Florian grinned delightedly and opened it, to reveal a very elegant silver and black fountain pen. >>Thank you, but...<<

>>But now, may I have mine back?<<

Flori hemmed and hawed for a moment, before digging in his coat, and finally produced his chequebook. Inside, was a similar, but much older and slightly battered pen of the same brand. >>Maybe I will keep this one, and you should have the newer one?<<

>>No chance. It belonged to my father. You may have it when I'm dead.<<

He sulked for a moment, but then surrendered it.

>>And now, this present, I am going to entrust to Janet.<< In his accent, it actually sounded like my birth name, Janette, though of course he had no way of knowing that. >>Because she seems more sensible than you, Flori, and I trust her not to lose it.<< Reaching back, he deposited a small set of keys with a heavy silver keychain into my hand.

>>What are they keys to?<< I asked, picking up the fob and reading _Schneider-Esleben_ inscribed upon them.

>>They're the spare keys to the apartment on Tersteegenstrasse. If you look on the desk in my office, you will find a calendar. I have spoken to the maid, and she will update the weekends I require it by highlighting them in yellow. The rest of the time, it's yours, for a love-nest, for a home. I've seen how you students bundle yourself in, four or five to an apartment, so I thought you might appreciate the privacy. But _not_... << He thumped the steering wheel to emphasise his point. >>To be used for that infernal band of yours, Flori. That racket can stay on the Berger Allee.<<

>>We have a proper studio now<< Florian said proudly, though still somewhat sullenly. >>I paid for the lease with the money from our record company. We can make as much noise as we like there.<<

>>Thank you, Herr Schnei... _Paul_ << I said pointedly, pocketing the keys into my handbag before poking Florian in the shoulder. He seized my hand and squeezed it, throwing a faint smile over his shoulder at me. >>We do appreciate it, you are very generous.<<

>>And I appreciate the gratitude for a change.<< Paul threw a long-suffering look at his son before throwing the car into gear and pulling off into traffic. >>If he manages not to wreck the place, I might let you two have the cottage in the South of France for a week or two over the summer...<<

At that Flori brightened, turning back towards me, stroking my fingers. >>Oh, you will like that, Zhan. You can see the beach from the house, and we can swim every day...<<

>> _If_ you don't wreck the place << repeated Paul, guiding the big car smoothly and silently through the narrow streets of the old town. It was still astonishing to me how nice the car was to ride in, with a different driver.

After a short drive, Paul pulled up and parked in the garage behind the house. He let us go first, perhaps to take the force of the blow, Florian carrying our suitcase, and me carrying the large shopping bag full of presents. Together, we walked up and entered through the balcony, though the former rehearsal room had been turned into a Christmas wonderland, with a huge decorated tree at one end.

>>My little son!<< cried Evamaria, and immediately rose to her feet to throw her arms around Flori, who looked slightly embarrassed, but bore the attention. It was quite possible she was already drunk, as there were two empty mugs that smelled slightly boozy on the table before her. >>Claudia! Fetch more mulled wine. Your brother and the little mouse are here!<< But then she craned her neck to look behind me, and looked disappointed to see only her husband. >>Where's that Ralf, then?<<

Florian shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily. >>Ralf, erm, won't be around for a while. He's, erm... busy.<<

>>Oh, that's a shame. Never mind, have some mulled wine.<<

Claudia appeared, carrying several more mugs of wine, though I shook my head, as I had grown to dislike the taste of the stuff. It brought up bad memories of events I'd rather have forgetten. I waited until she had handed mugs to Flori and her father before embracing her, but as we were clasped together, I whispered >>Is Ralf in Aachen?<<

She nodded swiftly. >>Yes. I've seen him; I gave him the keys to my flat. Don't worry, he will be OK. Are you and Flori...?<<

A grin spilled all over my face. >>Yes. We are so happy. Thank you!<< She kissed my cheek, then pulled away, her eyes sparkling, as it was starting to look a bit odd that we were embracing for so long. >>Will your fiancé be joining us?<< I asked, but her face darkened.

>>No. He is busy with his own family. But never mind...<< She turned around and looked out into the corridor. >>You know who are here? Klaus and Anni!<<

There was a burst of noise from the corridor, as Paul shook his head, gave up on the mulled wine, and headed for his flagon of Scotch. "Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum! Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum!" sounded joyously from outside, until Klaus burst in, his hair all dishevelled, a paper crown wobbling off kilter on his head. Anni was a few steps behind him, and the pair of them spun each other about, their eyes glowing and their faces shining with the oblivious glee of two young people in the flush of first love.

>>No!<< cried Evamaria, clasping her hands to her ears. >>No more of the Little Drummer Boy. Let's have another carol, Klaus, please...<<

But Klaus was not to be deterred. >>Florian!<< he exclaimed, helping himself to more mulled wine. >>Florian is here, oh fetch your flute, Florian.<<

Anni clapped her hands with mischief, and her hair flew out all about as she twirled. >>We can do the Little Drummer Boy properly now, with pipe and drums!<<

A small girl, in her teens, perhaps, or just earlier, appeared at the door, and frowned intensely at everyone before rolling her eyes dramatically. >>You are being _soooo_ loud I can hear you from upstairs. My god, are you all drunk already? You are so embarrassing! <<

>>Tina, stop being a stick-in-the-mud and give your Papa a hug<< bellowed Paul.

But Anni shrieked when she saw me, running over to embrace me. >>Jan! Oh, what a pleasant surprise! The gang's almost all here... Wait, where's Ralf? I was hoping that there would be a Power Station jam session later...<<

I hugged her back, but then stood, helplessly, with my mouth open, for a few moments as I tried to work out what to say. >>Actually, erm, Anni, Ralf and I are, well, we're kind of... well, we're through. I'm with Flori now.<<

>>Oh.<< She looked shocked for a second, but then brightened. >>Well, you always did like Flori better. See, I told you he was a gentleman. But... if Ralf... What about the Power Station gig tomorrow?<<

Florian cleared his throat; he had a very distinctive, loud way of clearing his throat that was enough to silence the entire room, just as he said, in a slightly too loud tone of voice. >>Ralf has quit Power Station.<<

For a full minute, no one said anything, all of us just staring at Florian as he swayed, uneasily, in the centre of the room. It was Klaus who broke the silence. >>But why?<< he demanded. >>The tour... all of those gigs... why would he...<< But his eyes flickered across towards me.

>>Ralf wished to complete his architectural studies<< said Florian firmly. >>And that is the end of it.<<

>>Hear, hear<< said Paul, across the room. >>Architectural studies are an excellent foundation for a young man's life. We all wish him every success with it. Don't we, Claudia?<< Thankfully, chatter resumed in the room, as Claudia and her father started to discuss all of the ways in which architecture and engineering were excellent courses to study, especially at the excellent and well-regarded Technical University in Aachen.

But Klaus moved closer to Florian, his face still shocked. >>I left school, and my own half-finished architectural degree, to join this band... because you guys had a contract, and I thought you were going places, playing regular gigs, bringing in regular cash. And now Ralf... just quits? What about the gig tomorrow? I need the cash from that gig, to pay off my Christmas gifts to Anni.<<

>>Don't worry, we will play the gig tomorrow. It's an improvisational thing anyway. We don't need Ralf to improvise... maybe I will call the electric violinist, and ask if he can sit in...<<

>>He's from Köln, he'll be away with his family for the holidays... Oh shit.<< Klaus sipped at his wine thoughtfully. >>Wait, do you know who I just saw, yesterday, in town, so I know he's about? Eberhard...<<

>>Eberhard!<< Florian's face lit up at the thought of the old friend who had apparently quit when Ralf had joined. >>You're right, he plays bass, a bit of cello. We should call him. Excuse me a minute... Mama, we'll be back shortly.<< And so he dashed off, leaving me to the mercies of his family.

But fortunately, Claudia caught my eye, and patted the seat next to her. Gratefully, I poured myself a glass of juice, and sat down next to her. >>So you and Flori...> she ventured.

Anni appeared and sat on the arm of the chair on my other side. I felt oddly like I was back in design class again, though those few short months seemed a very long time ago. >>Yes! Tell us about you and Flori. How did this happen?<<

>>There is nothing to tell, except that we are blissfully happy<< I said, feeling my face flushing red. >>There isn't really anything to it. I had just broken things off with Ralf, and I was walking away from Ralf and Emil's flat, and Florian was walking towards it, and we just looked at one another and...<<

>>And _someone_ << supplied Claudia >>Had just told the big old lug over breakfast, what someone really needed to tell him all along, but no one ever did: that Jan was in love with him. Not Ralf.<<

>>How marvellous.<< Anni laughed and clapped her hands. >>I love a good romance. But... wait. You must know Emil quite well, since you have been practically living there for a month... why on earth did he give me an A in Design, when I have not been to his class once since All Saints?<<

It was my turn to burst into laughter. >>That is a very long story, and not really mine to tell<< I said diplomatically. >>Have you dropped out of school for good?<<

Anni shrugged magnanimously and lit a cigarette. >>Who needs school when you are in love? Klaus has big plans. School doesn't come into them.<<

>>I'm in love, and I'm not planning on giving up my degree<< I said carefully, sipping my juice.

>>Yeah, I hear your and Silke's designs are a big success. I've seen Claudia's dress. It's beautiful. But if you're doing so well, why would you waste your time continuing to sit in those stuffy classes in the Kunstakademie, listening to idiots like Emil droning on and on about... _the medium and the message_ and all that crap? There's a whole world out there, and I want to live in it! << Tilting her head back, Anni blew a smoke ring.

>>I find Emil's classes very interesting.<< I shrugged. >>You're right, I haven't learned a thing about Design, but I've learned a lot about the world, and about how art _works_. I think perhaps people like Emil, and like Beuys, whose class I am taking next semester, can teach me things that will make our designs better, and maybe even more successful. Our cake may be rising now, but I don't want to take the cake out of the oven until it's fully cooked. Or else it flops. <<

>>I agree<< said Claudia. >>Do you remember a few months ago, when Flori said I should just go against our father, and marry when I turned 21? Because Papa wanted me to finish my degree? Well, I'm glad I waited. Because right now, well... I know for certain that I want to finish my degree and go into practice, maybe architecture, maybe interior design. But I am not so sure any more, that I want to get married.<<

>>Claudia?<< I said, more than slightly shocked.

>>Fathers are horrible creatures, though<< spat Anni. >>They think they own their daughters, but I tell you, they don't. My father keeps threatening to move the whole family back to Scandinavia if I don't stop seeing Klaus. What a terrible idea! We left when I was 7, I don't remember it at all. I have no friends, no social life at all there. I won't go! I refuse! I'm 19 - 20 in the new year - and if he thinks he can tell me what to do with my life, well, he's wrong.<<

>>But you're 19<< pointed out Claudia, in a very low, even voice. >>Until you're 21, legally, he does have that right.<<

>>Oh, stop it, you're as bad as the rest of them<< snorted Anni, reaching for her wine and crushing her cigarette into the ashtray. >>Since you're graduating school, and joining an architectural practice, are you going to turn into the Establishment, too? Never trust anyone over 30... well, maybe it should be never trust anyone over 21!<<

She sounded so much like Klaus and Michael and their silly political arguments at that moment, that I didn't quite have the heart to remind her that her beloved boyfriend was in fact 24. But I shook my head and turned to Claudia. >>Dear-heart, do you lot happen to have any gin for my juice? I'm starting to feel like the only person here who is sober, and I don't know that I like it.<<

Patting me gently on the knee, she rose to her feet. >>Come with me, I'll find you something.<<

Although I had been enjoying the party more than I had expected to, I was relieved to leave it for the relative peace and quiet of the kitchen. I had never seen this part of the house, and was relieved that it was, indeed, actually a fairly normal - though large and particularly spacious - kitchen, rather than some hi-tech space-age design feature of silver and shiny chrome. Claudia dug about in the liquor cabinet until she found a bottle of London Dry Gin, and poured a dash into my juice before freshening it up with juice and a few ice cubes from the fridge.

>>Is there anything else you want while we're here?<< she offered, perching on a stool beside a mound of food in various states of preparation. >>We will eat in about an hour or so, when everyone's good and sauced, but you might want to line your stomach, as we've all been eating steadily since noon. Do you want a mince-pie... Wait, do they have mince-pies in England?<<

>>We have mince-pies in England, yes, but are they vegetarian?<< I asked cautiously.

>>Who knows.<< Claudia picked one up and nibbled at it. >>Don't think so. Wait... no... those over on that plate. With the F pricked in the tops with a fork? Those are for Flori, so those will be vegetarian.<<

I picked one up and bit into it; it was delicious, though it was more than half brandy. >>So what you were saying before Anni came over... are you really having cold feet about marriage?<<

Claudia sighed deeply. >>I just... I don't know. Don't take this the wrong way, but... talking to you about why you didn't want to marry Ralf, well, it just made me think about my own motivations for getting married. And I didn't know that I liked the answer.<<

>>Do you love your fiancé?<< I asked, picking up a second mince-pie after demolishing the first.

>>Yes, of course I do. We are... we are both passionate people, and we love with a great deal of passion and intensity and... pow! But, really, what I am afraid of is... I'm not sure that I _like_ him. <<

>>Does one not usually follow the other?<< I had to admit I had no idea. I had neither loved nor liked Ralf particularly through the course of our relationship. Flori, however, I'd fallen in love with the moment I'd met him, and only grown to like him more and more as I'd got to know him.

For a moment, Claudia looked at me like she was going to burst out laughing, but then she shrugged. >>Does it?<< As I struggled to think about it, she poured herself a glass of wine. >>My parents are very passionate. But they fight a lot. You may not have noticed.<<

>>I... kind of have.<< I confessed. >>It's a good sign that they still fight, though. It means they still love one another. My parents stopped fighting about six months before they decided to divorce. I thought it was a respite. Really, it was the end of the world.<<

>>I'm sorry.<< Claudia made a face, and reached out to pat my hand gently. >>I don't know that my parents love each other any more, either. But hate is just as good for passion as for love. I don't know that they ever _liked_ one another to start with, though. And that makes me afraid, because my fiancé and I, we have started to fight like my parents. And though it feels familiar, I don't know that familiar is good, when you come from a family like mine. <<

>>Florian doesn't fight, though. Or does that mean...<< For an awful second, I had to wonder if she was implying that Flori and I didn't really love one another.

She shook her head in that quick, brisk movement that reminded me so much of her brother. >>Flori and I have gone to the completely opposite directions, albeit for the same reasons. He never fights. He will go to extraordinary lengths _not_ to fight. For exactly the same reasons that Tina and I, we fly at people like cats the moment we are provoked. <<

I nodded, but I still didn't really understand.

>>No, what I'm trying to say is, I think you and Flori are alike in your refusal to fight. I think if Flori was with someone who wanted to fight all the time, it would be terrible. But because you and he are alike in your pacifism, I think you two will be OK.<<

Looking down at my hands, I felt my face growing warm, as I couldn't help but smile. >>I know that he and I haven't known each other very long, but...<< I spread my hands, grasping for words. >>I don't know how familiar you are with English novels or if this is something completely obscure and weird to my culture alone, but have you read a novel called _Wuthering Heights_? <<

Claudia laughed. >>Have I read _Wuthering Heights_? Sweetie, we all read the Brontes in High School English. <<

>>Well, do you know the passage where Catherine is talking to her maidservant about her feelings for Heathcliff, and how different they are from her feelings for Linton?<<

>>My god, I could quote it word for word when I was a teenager.<< As she put her hand to her heart, I felt a sudden surge of affinity for her, like we could have been friends, back in high school, like we could have bonded over those weird, wild Bronte novels. >>How did it go...<<

>>You know, all that _my love is as unchanging as the bedrock_ and _he and I, we are made of the same stuff_... << My eyes grew large, and though my adult self laughed a little at the melodrama of it, there was a part of me that still, passionately wanted to feel that.

Claudia took a swig of wine and nodded. >>Yes, I probably still have it by heart, if you give me a minute to remember the English. Marvellous stuff, isn't it, and so intoxicating. When you were a teenager, didn't you just wish you could meet someone like that...<<

I swallowed nervously, not really wanting to remind her that I technically was, still, a teenager, at least for another 13 months. >>You don't, still? Not even a little bit?<<

As Claudia stopped to consider this, pushing her glasses back up her nose with a thoughtful expression, for a moment I almost wished she were _my_ cool sister.  >>Well, with Heathcliff and Cathy, you get the feeling that they were _made_ that way, forced into intimacy through experiencing such harsh difficulties together, rather than that being something that you could... just meet someone and feel that way about them instantly. <<

>>You don't think it ever happens that way?<< I folded my hands in my lap, feeling embarrassed and immature for even bringing it up. >>Because I guess I like to pretend... or maybe I'm just fooling myself. When we are together, I feel like... Flori and I are made from the _same stuff_. <<

Claudia stopped and looked at me for a long moment, her face unreadable. But then she reached out and touched my hand, squeezing gently. >>Who am I to scoff? Maybe you are.<<

>>But then I second-guess myself. And I think... you know who really are made of the _same stuff_? You know who are like two peas in a pod? You know who are like two Einzelgängers who met and became a Doppelgänger? Not Flori and Jan. Flori and Ralf. << I confessed, taking another sip of gin. >>And I'm some interloper that's changed all that, upset the balance.<<

>>You blame yourself for the two of them falling out? Oh, Jan...<<

>>Yes. That. But also...<< I took a deep breath. >>If Flori and I are so similar... And Flori and Ralf are so similar... How is it that Ralf and I are so completely, antithetically unlike and even opposed to one another?<<

Claudia let out a sudden snort of laughter that she did her best to cover with her mouth, and then she pretended to cough, though it was clear from her eyes that she was dying of mirth.

>>What is it? What have I said that is so funny.<<

>>I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh.<< Slowly, Claudia regained control over her voice, then looked up at me, her eyes full of amazement. >>You _look_ so much like him, Jan. Have you never noticed? <<

>>What?!<< I snapped, suddenly putting my hands to my face. >>No I don't! I don't look like a man. Everyone says that, but I don't. I _don't_! <<

>>Jan, you are very androgynous. It's highly attractive, very striking, it's one of the first things people notice about you. You are so tall and striking-looking, you look like a pretty boy. But you don't look just like any pretty boy, the pretty boy you look like is Ralf. Do you not see it? Your deep-set blue eyes? Your turned-up nose, your strong jaw? You don't have the brows, no, but I've seen you when you paint in that strong silent filmstar makeup, you paint in arched eyebrows just like his. Here...<< Taking off her glasses, she extended them towards me. >>Put on a pair of glasses, you will see.<<

I put on the glasses, blinked at the warping strength of the prescription, and walked over to look at myself in the darkened glass of the kitchen window. A very serious young man stared back.

>>That glare you are so famous for. Do that glare you always do.<<

>>Glare? What glare?<< I frowned at the makeshift looking glass.

>>The glare that you were doing on the catwalk for Silke's fashion show!<<

I narrowed my eyebrows and glared at the glass. And for a moment, I saw it, I actually saw Ralf's irritating face glaring back at me. Stepping away from the glass as if I'd been burned, I ripped the glasses from my face, fearing their distorting properties, and handed them back to her. >>A passing resemblance, no more.<<

>>Oh, you little mouse<< laughed Claudia, cleaning her glasses with the hem of her shirt before popping them back on her face. >>You don't even know; it's a thing with Ralf. He always dates girls who look just like him. Girls with long faces and severe blue eyes and blonde or light-brown hair. And then he spends the next six months trying to turn them into a miniature version of himself. I have seen him do this, not once, but two or three times. You were not the first, you will certainly not be the last.<<

I looked at her in horror, remembering the endless ways in which Ralf had always seemed to be criticising and trying to modify my own behaviour. >>So what are you trying to say. That Flori only fell for me, because I look like his best friend?<<

>>No, not at all. Flori is so blind to faces that he, genuinely, has never noticed. He would have said so, and he never has. But what I'm trying to say is... you know, there's a saying. One hates most in other people what one fears most in yourself. Ralf irritates you, I know this. But might he irritate you because he reminds me of bits of yourself that you don't really like?<<

I chewed on my lip and considered my drink. Me? Like Ralf? Like irritating, arrogant, intolerant, inflexible Ralf, always trying to prove himself cleverer than everyone else around him? I never was! >>I like myself just fine.<<

Claudia burst out laughing. >>And Ralf does, too. A little too much sometimes, we both think, yes?<<

>>Next, you will be like Myrthe and Silke, telling me I am _unfriendly_. Well, I am not _unfriendly_ , I am just very shy<< I insisted, feeling my face going red.

>>Ralf, too, you know, is very shy...<< Claudia started to tease, but then I saw her face change. >>Oh, you are getting defensive, just like Ralf used to get defensive when I would tease him. Well, I shall stop. I'm sorry, mausling, I forgot, you do not fight for fun. Forgive me. Let me get you another drink...<<

I realised that my glass was empty, and allowed her to fill it with more gin and orange juice. As i sipped, I thought again of the absent third of our triangle. >>Claudia, you've spoken to Ralf since the break-up, yes...<<

She nodded slowly. >>Yes, when I gave him the keys to my flat in Aachen. I told him he could stay there over Christmas. I hope to god I don't regret that decision.<<

>>I know he's angry and hurt, but do you think he will come back and play with Power Station again, in time?<<

>>Ach, am I a mind-reader, Jan? I don't know.<< She paused. >>You mustn't feel guilty about him leaving, you know. Him going to Aachen was always on the cards.<<

>>I know, but I feel like I did drive him away. And... Oh god, this sounds so selfish. You know, I love Flori so much it makes me crazy. I just want Flori to be happy, to be thriving, to be... flourishing. And I know that Ralf - and Power Station - make Flori happy, make him flourish and grow in that way that he needs. So is it selfish to want them back together again, even though I drove them apart?<<

>>Selfish?<< sputtered Claudia. >>I think that sounds like the exact opposite...<<

But I heard her voice trail off, as I heard someone walk up behind me, and felt strong arms circle me from behind, and a sharp, pointed chin rest against my shoulder as someone squeezed me, so tight I thought I might burst. I smelled the aftershave before I felt the lips against my cheek. Flori.

I stiffened abruptly, wondering how much he had heard. >>Were you listening?<<

>>No, I've just walked in.<< He didn't even have the guile to lie. >>But I'm glad I heard what I did.<<

>>What did you hear?<< I asked, my stomach turning flip-flops, wondering if I dared to ask him if he thought I was too much like the unpleasant aspects of Ralf.

>>As I walked in, I heard you say you wanted me to flourish and grow and you wanted to make me happy. So I'm letting you know just exactly how happy you make me. I am flourishing, with you.<< Kissing the top of my head, he squeezed me some more. It felt oddly reassuring, being squeezed by Flori, in a way I normally hated being touched.

Claudia looked like she'd swallowed something unexpected. >>You two are genuinely sickeningly sweet. I'm going back to the party.<<


	28. Schönsten Weihnachtslieder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Christmas Day, family secrets accidentally come out.
> 
> And on Boxing Day, the new, Ralf-less version of Power Station makes their debut at the Creamcheese Club.

All evening long, we gorged ourselves on a never-ending procession of treats that eventually gave way to a light evening meal. After supper came the opening of presents, and though I was a late addition, I was surprised to find I had not been forgotten. Claudia had bought me beautiful wool for weaving, from a particularly hardy strain of German sheep she said was supposed to make wonderful all-weather cloth. There was a pair of fuzzy slippers from Paul and Evamaria, which was brilliant, as I'd been wandering around the house in socks. Klaus and Anni had given a combined present to both Flori and I - the newest David Bowie album, _The Man Who Sold The World_.

>>You don't have it yet, do you?<< asked Anni nervously. >>It's very good. A bit weird, but perhaps better than _Space Oddity_. <<

>>Oh, I was obsessed with _Space Oddity_ << Flori confessed, and I looked up at him, because Flori didn't often confess to being impressed by other musicians. >>I loved the idea of sitting in a tin can, all alone in space.<<

>>Really?<< I grinned at him, feeling yet another link between us. >>Valerie and I saw him perform it in the arts cafe in Beckenham, before it even made the charts. We loved him! He would play a gig, then he would come out in the audience and talk about the philosophy of Kabuki or something, and if we were lucky, his wife would bring us all biscuits and cake. They were so lovely.<<

>>Well, put it on the stereo<< insisted Evamaria, who liked to keep up with modern music. Claudia took the record from me, smiling at the cover photo of Bowie in a dress, and walked over to put it on.

Florian, however, saved his gift for last, sitting close to me as he handed me the box, shielding me from the view of his family.

>>This is special<< he said quietly. >>And I want it to be symbolic. But just not the kind of symbolic that they might think, OK?<<

I nodded quietly, though to be honest, I already had an idea. Yes, inside the small box was a ring, not an engagement ring or a wedding ring, but a band of twisted silver tracery in an old-fashioned 'Celtic' style. >>It's beautiful<< I said cautiously, wondering what it was supposed to mean.

>>It supposedly comes from Glastonbury. I hear this is a sacred place to the English, and you are English... so I immediately saw it and thought you should have it.<< His eyes were very guarded.

>>That's lovely that you thought of me. But Flori... giving a girl a ring... what do you intend it to mean?<< After all the awful assumptions on Ralf's part, I just thought it better to ask.

But it wasn't awkward with Flori at all. He frowned thoughtfully, then he burst into that magnificient smile, so wide and and kind and encouraging. >>It means whatever _you_ want it to mean. Glastonbury is supposed to be magic... so it is a magic ring. It means whatever _you_ say it means. So you tell me what you want it to mean. <<

I tried it on my little finger, but it was far too big. It was too small for either of my middle fingers, and wouldn't quite jam onto the ring finger of my right hand. On impulse, I slid it onto the ring finger of my left hand, where women normally wore an engagement ring or a wedding ring. It fit perfectly, but it didn't look the slightest bit like a wedding ring, it looked far too pagan and wild. >>Weddings are a Christian thing<< I observed carefully. >>This looks far too pagan to be a wedding ring, so clearly it means that you and I are meant to live in sin like pagans.<<

Flori's smile turned positively evil. >>I don't think I believe in sin. I think sin, like Krampus, is just an old myth that people tell children to keep them from misbehaving. But we're adults, we can make up our own minds about how to behave.<<

>>I do believe I would like to live with you, though. Like, properly live with you. Move in together. Share not just a bed, but a life.<<

>>Then that is what it means.<< He leaned forward and kissed me. >>We will live together. I'm very pleased with this idea.<<

We ate and drank and then ate some more until I genuinely thought I was going to burst. Then the two of us lay cuddling on the carpet in front of the fire for a while, as the family vaguely entertained the idea of going to Midnight Mass. Paul and Claudia seemed to mostly just be feeling nostalgic, and their advocacy was fuelled by some aesthetic sense that there should be the singing of carols, and incense, and stained glass, rather than any genuine religious sentiment, though Paul tried to appeal to the notion that the Eslebens had always been a staunchly pious Catholic family.

Evamaria scoffed at the idea, though for the most part, religion, and the traditions of Christmas seemed to be things she was simply oblivious to, leaving the cooking and the decorating to the staff and children. Tina, with the certainty of a teenager, insisted she was an atheist, then Klaus went one further by saying he was an anarchist, provoking a groundswell of sarcastic laughter from Paul, until Florian piped up and said that in the Quantum Universe, we had both gone and not gone to Midnight Mass until we opened the front door and observed us all getting in the family car and going or not, so since we had already gone and not-gone, we might as well stay in the house, where it was warm. And the Schneider-Eslebens all roared with laughter at their son's surreal sense of humour, and that seemed to settle the question.

Exhausted from the long day, we turned in early. For a moment, I hesitated on the stairs, wondering exactly how Bohemian his family were prepared to be. >>Where am I going to sleep?<< I asked sleepily, as we climbed the stairs.

>>With me?<< Florian looked at me as if he found the idea of me sleeping anywhere else completely incomprehensible, then took my hand to pull me along. For a moment, befuddled by gin and too much food, I thought of some quantum universe where another quantum me had gone off to Krefeld with Ralf, and wondered if his parents would have allowed us to share a bed?

The top floor was unexpectedly chilly, after the warmth of the fire, as if the heating didn't quite permeate all the way to the top of the house. So Flori found me a spare set of pyjamas, kicked the rubbish off his bed, and we both climbed inside, huddling together for warmth. We were asleep within minutes.

I woke him with the promised Christmas present the next morning, followed by a long lie-in. He almost purred like a cat, rolling his head back and grasping at the sheets as he came. Although he wanted to return the favour, it still felt weird, to me, to make love at his parents' house, so I put him off for a bit. He put on a dressing gown, and I donned on a long cardigan that came down to my knees, and we went down to the kitchens in search of breakfast to find the family already assembling. The staff had been given the day off, so Claudia and Tina were attempting to prepare breakfast, with Evamaria "supervising" from the kitchen table, where she sat, nursing a hangover.

They were not a warm family, the Schneider-Eslebens, though I wasn't sure I would have felt so welcome had they been warm and cuddly and affectionate with one another. They were all intensely individualistic, and spikily intellectual, arguing over Marxism and Pop Art at the breakfast table. They all spoke their minds, sometimes even speaking roughly with one another, but it was a great relief that they did all actually listen to and engage with one another's arguments seriously. There was no notion that a teenage girl could not engage her elders on philosophy or aesthetics, which would have shocked and horrified the Van Der Merwes, but absolutely satisfied the DeLays. And their odd, highly intellectual coldness with one another meant that there were no real distinctions between blood family and outsiders - Klaus and Anni and I were just absorbed as more young people to be interrogated or sported with. They were an odd bunch, but I found that I belonged to that oddness.

After breakfast, Flori and I volunteered to clean up. I offered to do the dishes, until I was shown a sleek, modern dishwasher, into which I started to load the breakfast plates. Again, Evamaria "supervised" from the table, though she had given up on nursing the hangover, and had mixed herself a Bloody Mary. I was in some small way fascinated by the dynamic between Flori and his mother. She was such a huge, expansive personality that anyone else might just have been flattened by her, but Flori had such an odd, determined way of sticking up for himself in a way that resembled passivity so much that it appeared as if he doted on her. In a weird way, he _managed_ her, in a way his father didn't seem able to. Some voice resonated up in my head from the depths of childhood, telling me ' _Watch out! Always watch for how the man you think you love treats his mother. It is the way he will eventually treat you. If I'd seen how your father and Madame DeLay treated one another, I never would have married him!_ ' Then again, given I was already four months along, had my mother really had much of a choice in the matter? But though Evamaria was quite obviously a _difficult_ woman, I never saw Florian treat her with anything except calm, even respect.

Christmas itself was another day of feasting, eating and drinking and stuffing ourselves sick. The German rituals seemed both oddly familiar and completely foreign. Christmas afternoon without a massive squabble over whether to watch The Queen's Speech - that seemed more strange to me than a Christmas afternoon without an address from a monarch. There were television programmes they all seemed completely familiar with, though they were culturally incomprehensible to me, no matter what strides I'd made with the language in the previous four months. I watched, half-horrified, half-entranced as the television showed a gang of burly middle-aged Germans, all in traditional gear, lederhosen and all, bashing their way through schlager versions of Christmas Carols. Some had tunes that were at least familiar, though the German words were strange, and quite disorienting. Others were completely new to me, though the television showed the words along the bottom of the screen, as if we were supposed to sing along.

But I gasped, when the next tune was announced. >>Flori<< I announced breathlessly, poking his ribs to wake him from his food-induced doze. >>I think they are going to play a Power Station song!<<

>>What?<< Flori stared, befuddled, at the screen, but the middle-aged Germans were gathering to sing as a chorus. >>What are you talking about?<<

>>The title, it just announced that they were going to play _Vom Himmel Hoch_. That's one of your songs, yes? That's a Power Station song. <<

Flori looked at me, completely astonished, before the realisation dawned. >>Oh, you silly little mouse. You don't know? Do they not have this carol in England?<< I just looked at him blankly, as he burst out laughing. >> _Vom Himmel hoch, da komm ich her_ \- it's a hymn. By Martin Luther. Very famous in Germany, every child knows it. <<

>>I've never heard of it.<< I confessed, feeling very foolish. Why on earth did he put up with me? >>I only knew your song.<<

But Flori looked at me in the sort of half-amused, half-soppy way he looked at me when I compounded words that were not supposed to be compound, like everything I did slightly wrong was completely adorable. >>Oh you don't get the joke then; it's supposed to be a pun. In the Christmas Carol, angels come from heaven on high. In our song, bombs.<< Unfolding his long limbs, he climbed off the sofa and made his way to the stereo, digging through a pile of his parents' records until he found an album of _Schönsten Weihnachtslieder_ and put it on.

I stared at him as an ornate Bach version spilled out of the speakers, drowning out the schlager on the television. And then I started to laugh. Flori's grin was irresistible, and the pun I had never caught. I laughed and laughed and laughed. "Oh my god, you are bonkers" I managed to squeak out, as I wondered what else I had missed in their sly, playful sense of humour.

>>What is this word, bonkers?<< he asked, cocking his head to one side curiously.

>>It's you is what it is.<<

The board games came out as the sun went down, but because there weren't enough pieces to go round, we played Monopoly in teams, though it was very strange to me to see the board all decked with German street names. Flori and I formed one team, Klaus and Anni another, while Paul and Tina went up against Evamaria and Claudia - though Evamaria kept drifting off to field telephone calls from various far-flung family members, leaving Claudia to build her own empire. It was odd how a simple board game brought out such avariciousness in some members of the family. Paul was the absolute worst, as if he hadn't already made his own personal Monopoly board of the streets of Düsseldorf. Flori played badly, because he was such a soft touch, lending his mother or his sisters money, or excusing them rent on our properties if they were skint - a courtesy none of them showed to us. Eventually we sold out to Claudia, watching her and their father carve up the board between them as Klaus decided his anarchist principles didn't extend as far as real estate games, and he and Anni went off to smoke on the balcony.

Eventually, Paul gave up, and threw a multicoloured confetti of monopoly money into the air. >>I concede defeat! I surrender! My two beautiful daughters, you can carve up my empire between you. Enjoy your inheritance; I'm going to my study to discipline and control my mind with reading, studying and intellectual exercise, not this frivolous nonsense!<< As he stood up, he overturned the board, very obviously accidentally-on-purpose so the two warring sisters had to accept the draw.

As Tina started sorting the money back into piles of the same denomination and Claudia filed the real estate cards, Evamaria came back into the room, yawning and stretching. >>My god, I do not think there is a Schneider or an Esleben left in the Rhine-Ruhr district that has not phoned to say Happy Christmas. What a performance! Where is your father?<<

>>He has had enough of our games. He has gone to his study, to discipline and control his mind<< parroted Tina, poking her sister until she surrendered a 50 DM note she had stuffed into her bra.

Evamaria walked over to the door through which he had disappeared, opened it very quietly, then peered in. A brief look, and she closed it just as softly, before nodding at us decisively. >>Disciplining and controlling his mind... a nonsense! He is fast asleep. In which case, I am going upstairs for a nap before dinner. Ach, I cannot wait until this Christmas palaver is all over, for another year.<<

>>I don't think anyone over the age of 15 really likes Christmas<< I laughed, retrieving a 100 DM note that Tina had missed, from under Flori's bum. >>People only do it for the children, really.<<

>>Everything, it seems, we do for the children<< said Evamaria, a little sadly, as she looked down at her three children, so grown-up in body, yet reduced to squabbling like toddlers over the brightly coloured toy money. >>I don't even know that they enjoy it, to be honest.<<

>>Oh come on. Didn't you enjoy Christmas when you were a child, Evamaria?<< I asked, completely innocently. >>Decorating the tree, wrapping the presents, the Yule Fire, carolling, all that? I do have some good memories.<<

Evamaria looked at me with a positively icy expression. >>We did not celebrate Christmas, when _I_ was a child. <<

I recoiled as if I'd been slapped, as she whirled about with a haughty expression, and withdrew from the room with a crackling rustle of her elegant clothes. An awkward silence descended across the room in her absence, as I searched for something to say to defuse the mood. >>What did I say?<< I finally whispered to Flori, but he would not meet my eyes.

Claudia and Flori exchanged an unreadable glance, but Tina rolled her eyes and glared at them. >>Are neither of you going to say anything?<< she demanded. >>It's not as if it's a secret.<<

>>We don't talk about it<< said Claudia quietly. >>You know it upsets Mother.<<

Tina looked back and forth between the pair of them, before finally settling her gaze on me. >>Well, if no one else is going to say anything, I will<< she announced, with that tactless teenage certainty. >>Mama didn't celebrate Christmas, growing up, because her mother was Jewish. She was raised as a Jew until the 1930s, when everybody in the family had to stop being a Jew because it was too dangerous.<<

>>Tina<< warned Claudia sharply, even as I stared, gobsmacked, back and forth between the three siblings, Tina defiant, Claudia angry and Florian just staring intently down at the floor.

>>You're half Jewish?<< I said quietly, reaching out to touch his knee, not even able to grasp how loaded a question that might be in 20th Century Germany.

>>I'm not half anything. I'm human, that's all. A European human<< insisted Florian with a grim set to his jaw.

>>A quarter<< corrected Claudia, with a pedantic precision I was coming to realise that all the Schneider-Eslebens shared. >>But it's not something any of us talk about.<<

>>They don't talk about it because it's _boring_ << insisted Tina, rolling her eyes extravagantly. >>The story comes out when Mama gets drunk and maudlin, all that bloody old nonsense about the War. How terrible it was to be a teenager in the war, the shortages, the famines, how they had to eat shoe leather, children, before the Americans came. _Shooooooooe_ leather... <<

>>That's enough, Tina<< snapped Claudia, and I think at that moment, Tina realised she had gone too far, and shut up, slamming the cover onto the Monopoly box with perhaps unnecessary force.

I looked back and forth, between Flori, Claudia and Tina, then looked about the room, at the house I thought was so ostentatious, so opulent, the ridiculous displays of worldly goods, the vast spreads of food and drink, even Evamaria's scrupulously elegant clothing, and suddenly I saw them all in a different light. Evamaria no longer seemed quite so frivolous to me, realising everything that she must have lost in the War.

But abruptly, Flori stood up, shaking out his shoulders and stamping his feet like he was trying to banish something. >>I, too, have had too much to drink, and feel the need of a nap.<<

Looking up at him, I tried to read his face, but it was closed to me. >>Do you want me to come with?<<

Flori looked down at me, his eyes searching, but then he shrugged. >>If you wish.<<

I decided to follow the eyes' message, rather than the deliberately nonchalant shrug. >>Yes, I'll come up with you.<< I waited until we were alone on the stairs before trying to talk to him, gently, squeezing his hand to catch his attention. >>Are you alright.<<

Flori kind of shrug-nodded as we came out on the top floor, though his eyes were haunted. >>As Claudia says, it is not something we talk about. The only way Germans can move on is by not talking about what went before.<<

>>I wish the English would take the same attitude. I think sometimes we dwell too much on the past<< I replied, as he opened the door to our bedroom, then stretched out his long, thin frame on the bed.

But Flori's eyes were still clouded, like he was worried about something. Finally, as I sat down next to his legs and pulled off the expensive, hand-tooled leather shoes his mother had given him for Christmas, he spoke. >>Does it make a difference to you?<<

I turned to look at him, shocked. >>Of course not...<< But then I caught myself. >>I like knowing things about you, I like it when you tell me private things. It makes me feel loved, like you trust me. It's interesting to know, like all the different puzzle pieces that make you _you_. But does it change how I feel about you? No. <<

At that, Flori finally smiled, his eyes crinkling up. >>Well. This is about as private as it gets. I don't know that I would have told you, had Tina not taken it upon herself...<<

>>Do you mind my knowing?<<

He shook his head quickly, that distinctive sharp motion. >>No, not now.<<

I don't know what devil made me ask >>Does Ralf know?<<

He shook his head more slowly. >>I have not told him.<<

I kept my face solemn, though inside it was hard not to smile, at the idea that here, at last, was something private, something that Flori and I alone shared, that Ralf did not. >>Then I won't, either.<<

Kicking off my new slippers, I looked about for my bag, but as I picked it up, I saw the two small parcels wrapped up in brown paper, the gifts from my parents. Somehow they had not made it down to the Christmas Tree. I pulled one out, and looked at my father's spidery handwriting, but as I made to put it away again, Flori touched me lightly on the arm. >>Are you going to open them?<<

>>I don't know. Maybe not here.<<

>>Do you not want me to see?<< he asked, his face worried. Oh god, no. After all the discussion about family secrets and trust, I didn't want him to think that _he_ was the reason I was not opening them.

>>I don't mind you seeing, but I warn you, it can be a bit weird<< I confessed. >>Sometimes they forget I'm not a child. I'll open them if you like. <<

He curled up at the end of the bed, watching as I unwrapped my mother's gift first. It had come registered post, but Myrthe had clearly signed for it. There were customs forms on the back that indicated it was valuable, and sure enough, I removed the protective cardbox wrapping to find a velvet jewellery box. Inside was a thick gold necklace, with a very traditional, very conservative pendant attached, three good-sized diamonds below a teardrop shaped blue sapphire. I held it in my hand and looked at it, trying to feel gratitude. It was clearly very expensive, very tasteful, and about a million miles from anything I wanted, needed, or indeed, would have chosen to wear.

>>Are those real?<< asked Flori.

>>Probably<< I said dispassionately, passing it over to him casually. He grinned mischievously as he turned it over, then unfastened a few buttons of his shirt, wrapping it around his own neck and fastening it so that the gems sparkled below his Adam's Apple.

>>What do you think?<< he asked, batting his eyelashes at me and darting his shoulders this way and that like an ingenue, to make it sparkle.

>>Very fetching<< I laughed. Despite the fuzz of hair on his chest, there was something so feminine about the way that Flori moved, the way he carried himself. >>If you like it, you can have it.<<

He chuckled a little, picking it up and examining it. >>I do like the diamonds, but it's not exactly my style.<<

>>Then I'll sell it, and buy something you do like.<< He leaned over and kissed my shoulder as I picked up the box from my father next. >>This, I suspect, will be even weirder. He sent me a stuffed animal when I was 14, completely mortifying me in front of all the Van Der Merwes.<< But the box felt reassuringly heavy. I opened it to reveal a Polaroid instant camera and three boxes of colour film. We both gasped, as Florian sat up to get a closer look. >>Wow. OK, this is unexpectedly amazing.<<

>>Can I see?<<

>>No!<< Taking the camera out of its box, I turned it end over end, puzzling over it as Florian extracted the manual and start to read it. I pulled it out of its protective plastic bag, then played with the buttons. A catch released the film compartment, so I opened one of the packs of film and loaded it. >>Lie back, Flori<< I directed.

>>What, you want to take a picture of me?<< As he looked up, surprised, I clicked the button. A flash went off, then there was a whirring sound, and a photo emerged from the bottom.

He plucked it from the slot and examined it. >>It's blank. I'm too ugly; I've broken your camera.<<

>>You have to wait for it to develop, silly.<< I teased, tweaking his nose.

>>I know.<< A disarming grin I knew I wanted to capture for posterity, so I snapped again. >>Stop it, don't waste your film on my ugly face.<<

>>Flori<< I said, and put the camera down, looking at him sharply. >>I think you're beautiful.<<

He looked at me, uncomprehendingly. >>I am many things, but we both know beautiful is not one of them.<<

>>Flori, you are completely lovely. I find you so striking looking. Utterly unique. Your whole soul just shines in your eyes. To me, this is beautiful.<< He stared at me, as if considering this for the first time, as the outline of his chest started to become visible against the developing film. >>Let me take another.<< He sprawled across the bed on his side, one arm behind his head, the other draped across his hip, looking at me with a wistful little smile that made my heart melt as I snapped the photo.

>>Now let me take one of you.<<

>>No way<< I laughed, holding the camera out of his reach as he tried to take it from me.

>>Come on. I don't have any photos of you that haven't been clipped out of the Rheinische Post. And I want one.<< As I realised it was true, I handed the camera over, fluffed out my hair, then tried to give the glare that Helmut always encouraged me to make in Silke's promotional photos. Florian lowered the camera. >>No, don't look at me like that. Give me a nice look. Look at me like you were looking at me when you did that thing to me with your mouth.<<

I grinned lasciviously, almost out of habit, then started to blush. The camera caught me mid-smile, eyes crinkled, mouth slightly open as if to laugh, but Florian swore it was his favourite photo of me, completely candid and in character, half laughing, half blushing. (He carried it in his wallet for years, until the wallet itself was stolen on an American tour.) I picked up the photo of him lying on the bed, admiring how the harsh flash of the camera flattered his long limbs. I would keep that photo of him close to me for the rest of my life.

We had dinner with his family that evening, then we packed up our things, and set off on the long, chilly walk to our new home. It seemed fantastical that we really were setting up house together in this eagles' eyrie in the sky, but Paul had cleared out one of the closets, moved most of his things through into the office, and left us our new lovers' nest. Although I still legally lived at the Atelier, and continued to work there with my business partners, I treated it more and more like a workspace. I eventually moved the boxy bed upstairs for a more comfortable place to sit, and turned my tiny room into our office, insisting that we keep records and ledgers and proper accounts which Myrthe and I sweated over once a month with calculators and chequebooks. The week after Christmas, a Greek architecture student contacted Flori through a friend of a friend, and he took over the rent on the back rooms at 9 Berger Allee.

The new, Ralf-less Power Station played on Boxing Day at the Creamcheese Club as a four-piece, with Eberhard trying to sit in on cello and bass. I came by for soundcheck to show our support as they tried to teach Eberhard the new songs, and found Anni already ensconced on a comfortable sofa watching them, so we bought a bottle of wine and split it, giggling like teenagers as we watched our boyfriends muck about onstage. Florian and Klaus both had the tendency to be complete jokers, with similar surreal, anarchic senses of humour, and when they settled into a sort of double act, they were very, very funny.

But when Michael and Myrthe arrived, it became obvious that no one had shared the news of the big shake-up that had taken place over Christmas. Michael seemed completely perplexed by the presence of Eberhard, sitting to the left of the stage, staring forlornly at a sheaf of sheet music. >>Sorry I'm late but...<< He seemed to forget his excuse as he looked about, scanning the stage for the missing organ. >>Where's Ralf? The man is a walking wristwatch. He's never late.<<

>>Ralf has, erm, uh...<< Florian looked about helplessly, clearly grasping for some explanation. >>Ralf has decided he doesn't want to be in the band any more. So, um, this is how it is now.<< He shrugged, palms up, then smiled, as if that were all the explanation needed.

>>But the tour...<< said Michael, his brow furrowing. >>We have, like, six months of gigs booked across Germany. How are we going to play gigs... go on television... without Ralf?<<

Florian shrugged lightly. >>Well, we will play tonight with Eberhard, and see how it goes, ja?<<

Both of them looked across towards Eberhard, who was flipping through the sheaf of sheet music, and frowning, looking more and more confused. >>Look, Flori. About this sheet music... It's... It's... unusual.<<

>>I would have thought sheet music should be self-evident. You have studied at the Conservatory, right?<<

Eberhard held up a piece of paper. >>I don't think I understand this part?<< Although I could not read music at all, I was quite certain that I had never seen musical staves filled with explosions and small drawings of helicopters and Luftwaffe planes before.

>>Aw, yeah, man, that is the best bit!<< insisted Klaus, standing up and coming over to explain. >>See, at this point, Flori is doing the explosions...<<

>>Blam!<< said Florian, with a knowing glance towards me. >>Just like a V-2 Retribution-Rocket.<<

>>And Michael has the distortion and the tremolo all the way up on the guitar so it sounds like helicopter noises, then me and Ralf come in with this dronerock bit that goes Blam! Smash! Dur-dur-durr-durr, like, just the same one note until Flori nods at us to stop, it just builds and builds until it's like a dogfight in the sky. It's so awesome, so much fun to play!<<

>>Look, where is Ralf anyway?<< asked Eberhard, scratching his beard thoughtfully. >>Maybe he can give me some pointers, because, you see, Herr Stockhaus- _esleb_ -en, I play _bass_. Not helicopters or V-2 rockets, OK? <<

>>Aachen<< said Florian in his annoyingly sensible voice. >>He has gone to architecture school in Aachen.<<

As the three of them huddled over the sheet music, Myrthe turned slowly towards me, her eyebrows knitting together in concern as she tried to put everything together. --So if Ralf is in Aachen, well... how did Krefeld go?-- I saw her eyes dart to the ring finger of my left hand, noting the magic ring from Glastonbury.

I thrust my hand into the pocket of my jacket - an old linden jacket of Florian's with a sheepskin lining that was very, very warm. It seemed only fair that I wore something of his, since he was wearing the orange satin trousers that had formerly been mine. --I didn't go to Krefeld.--

\--Jan, you were away for at least a week. Where did you go?--

I was not relishing the prospect of having to continually announce this to every new person I saw, and wondered how to come up with some explanation that would permanently settle it for everyone. For a moment, I considered just acting as inscrutable as Florian, and saying 'Golzheim' mysteriously, but the smile that was dancing around the edge of Myrthe's lips heartened me. --I... I... broke up with Ralf a week before Christmas and ran away with Florian, OK?-- I suddenly erupted, all in a hiss of breath. --I didn't go anywhere. I have just pretty much spent the past week in bed with Flori.--

Myrthe screamed out loud and threw her arms around me. --Aaiiiyyeee! I can't believe you did it! Oh my god, I'm so happy for you!--

At that moment, we realised that the music from the stage had stopped, and turned around to see four pairs of irritated eyes staring at us for interrupting. >>Well<< said Eberhard, sighing as he adjusted his bass. >>If you want explosions, that's what you should get. Girls screaming gibberish in unintelligible languages.<<

Myrthe and I fell silent, but Anni stuck her tongue out at him, provoking a round of laughter from us girlfriends.

But Eberhard looked at us suspiciously. >>Why are the girls at sound check anyway? They are distracting. And since when have Power Station had _girlfriends_? << he demanded. >>Things have changed since I was last in the band<<

Anni was in a playful mood, sucking down her glass of wine. >>Since some of us girls discovered that the members of Power Station have _members_ the size of a man's arm << she tossed back, holding up her forearm and clenching a fist. Up on stage, Klaus's face split open in an embarrassed but proud grin.

>>Now, now, Anni, you know this is a lie<< said Myrthe slyly, arranging her face into the pretence of innocence. >>Some of Power Station have members the size of traffic cones.<< Michael turned the colour of his surname, and cast a glance, alarmed, at the traffic cone that sat beside him on the stage, as his bandmates started to giggle.

I put my hand over my mouth and started to laugh. >>And some of Power Station<< I added, in a very theatrical stage whisper. >>Have members the size of V-2 Retribution-Rockets.<<

The entire band erupted into open laughter, as Florian stood in the middle of the stage, with a slightly sheepish expression on his face, as he inclined his head in acknowledgement, as if to say, yes, it is a burden, but one must bear it, being so generously endowed and virile. But then he turned to the side, twiddled a knob on his synthesiser, and with a mad scientist grin, let loose a mighty explosion like an atom bomb with perfect comic timing, so that everybody fell about with laughter.

The gig was a little bit strange, but I was getting so used to strange Power Station gigs that it was perhaps weird to see them in a club, playing on a stage, rather than in a sculpture gallery or a student art show or a fashion catwalk. Without Ralf directing things, Michael and Klaus really seemed to expand to take up most of the space, musically. When Ralf was constantly showing off, I had never really noticed what an incredibly good guitarist Michael was. He and Klaus just locked into a driving rhythm together, so tight and so insistent that I felt my heartrate increasing to match it. Florian drifted over the top with his gorgeous flute melodies, like flecks of cloud skirting across a sunset. Occasionally, Michael would float up into a melody or counter-melody to answer him, before segueing seamlessly back to that fluid, flickering rhythm with Klaus. Eberhard, on the other hand, just seemed lost. He would try to play sort of jazzy basslines, but they just didn't work with the strange, minimalist music that the other three stuck to with almost tunnel vision.

The band improvised for most of the afternoon, treating it as a kind of open rehearsal. Then, as the club filled towards the early evening, they played some of the songs from the record. As night fell, the place was becoming busy. Claudia arrived with a whole gang of people I didn't know - her schoolfriends, she said. Now that the record was out, people were starting to recognise the various songs. Ruckzuck got a big cheer and a warm response, as it always did, and even Anni and Claudia got up to dance for a bit.

As the set built towards its conclusion, a rather familiar looking short man came over and stood by me. He seemed distressed by the more experimental pieces, and grew very agitated during Vom Himmel Hoch, even as Flori and Michael were laughing at one another, throwing musical sound-bombs across the stage at Klaus, who would respond with bursts of freeform noise from his cymbals.

>>You like this?<< The short man nudged my elbow, and I prepared to shrug off a pick-up attempt when I realised I knew him. It was little Wolfgang, from Michael's old band, the Spirits of Sound.

>>I love this song. I think it's a lot of fun<< I shouted back into his ear. >>What do you think?<<

>>I think it's _shit_ << Wolfgang snorted, crossing his arms defensively. >>I can't believe Michael left us for this.<<

I frowned, but then tried to be charitable, wondering how hard it was to find new musicians in Düsseldorf's tiny scene. >>So how are Spirits of Sound doing?<<

Wolfgang's weasel-like face darkened. >>We've broken up. Couldn't find another guitarist anywhere near as good as Michael. I've got an apprenticeship in an architect's office.<<

I bit my lip, feeling absolutely awful about that, and wondering what to say. >>I guess there's a lot of that going around. You know Ralf's quit Power Station to go back to Architecture School in Aachen.<<

I absolutely hated the self-satisfied little smirk that settled on Wolfgang's pert little mouth. >>Can't say I blame him.<< Turning to me, he looked me up and down, trying to pull himself up to his full height, though his nose came about even with my elbow. >>Though he's a fool to leave you unattended. Can I buy you a drink?<<

>>No thanks, I've got everything I need<< I replied dismissively, though my gin and tonic was nothing but ice cubes. He gave a little shrug and moved over to Anni. Yeah, good luck there, mate.


	29. Back To School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In early 1971, Power Station are experiencing endless line-up changes as they try to get used to playing without Ralf.
> 
> And Jan returns to school - both her schools - to find new challenges and exciting new inspiration from the electrifying Professor Beuys.

Power Station played again at a party on New Year's Eve, though this time, Eberhard had been replaced by an Asian dude with long hair and a string of effects pedals to beat Jimi Hendrix. This new guitarist was a much more accomplished musician, and was more able to cope with the long, fluid passages of total improvisation, so he actually lasted a few gigs, mostly tour warm-up sessions in the bars of Düssledorf. But this dude's technical virtuosity actually seemed to irritate Klaus and Michael. He was constantly trying to solo during passages that Flori had written out as "Dröhn" on the sheet music. He didn't seem to grasp that both Michael and Flori could solo, and proficiently, but they just chose not to. This new guy, he showed no such restraint, and seemed unable to stick to the single-note diktat, until it became obvious that his solos were about showing off as much as expressing the music.

The final straw came during a 'record listening-party' at Flori's and my flat. I had made supper, a nice lentil stew, and invited the boys round to smoke spliffs and listen to records on Flori's dad's amazing hi-fi, to work up an appetite. I thought it was bad for them to spend so much time cooped up in an all-male environment, so I asked Myrthe and Anni and the new guitarist's girlfriend along. Bring desert and booze, I told them, and bring their favourite records. Flori and and Klaus and Michael played all the typical stuff that they loved - the Velvets, Terry Riley, _The Man Who Sold The World_ , a bit of free jazz, the first album by The Can, some strange musique concrete albums that Flori had found in his father's record collection, a little Stockhausen, as well as some strange electronic music that some Frenchmen made with tape loops.

I rather liked that Stockhausen; I thought it sounded like robots arguing. But the new guitarist, Houschäng, looked very unimpressed indeed with it all, and took out the LPs that he had brought. The first one he put on was Led Zeppelin III. Although I could see Michael, ever polite, listening to it with an intent expression that meant he was trying very hard to give it a chance, the expression on Flori's face as the chords of Immigrant Song died away, it was positively poisonous. I knew it was that pretentious pseudo-American 'white-boy blues-wank' stuff that he absolutely loathed.

>>Erm<< he said, quite loudly as Houschäng passed him a spliff, casting about desperately for something to say. It wasn't really like Flori to keep his opinions to himself if he hated something, and he was clearly struggling. >>This is, erm, interesting.<<

But it was Klaus who could not force himself to be diplomatic. >>I cannot listen to this masturbatory fantasy Lord of the Rings crap one minute longer. Get this shit out of my hearing.<< He went straight to the hi-fi, ripped the needle from the record, and forcibly replaced it with _White Light White Heat_ by The Velvet Underground, blasting Lou Reed's terrifying tale of sailors and drag queens and blow-jobs. I felt strange, exposed, listening to this odd, queer, very sexual music in Flori's apartment, with Klaus glaring, and Houschäng leaning forward, a concerned expression on his face.

>>Florian, this sounds kind of... wrong. Is your stereo broken, because there's a terrible distorted hissing sound, over which I can barely hear the music.<<

>>It's guitar feedback<< said Flori in a very tight voice. >>You know, like Jimi Hendrix. It's _supposed_ to sound like that. <<

>>It doesn't sound like Hendrix, man. It just sounds like noise. It's not even music, just unintelligible noise and shouting.<<

>>I am a very big fan of your so-called ' _noise_ '<< said Flori icily. >>We use harsh and even industrial ' _noise_ ' very often in our own compositions.<<

Things went downhill from there, as it became just one more territorial pissing competition, but this time over the stereo.

By the time I went to meet the band, later that week, for a late supper in a cafe near their rehearsal studio, the guitarist was gone, and the three of them had decided to continue as a trio. And over the next month, Power Station evolved into a new, tight, aggressive three-piece of Flori, Michael and Klaus.

Faced with those appallingly gratuitous guitar solos and drum solos and shrieking histrionics of Robert Plant, they had all spontaneously and simultaneously agreed to pursue minimalism as a matter of choice and philosophy. In 1971, as rock records got steadily longer - double albums, even triple albums - and the music on the radio got steadily more and more bloated, it seemed almost wilfully perverse the way my three severe young friends were trying to strip it all away. As we sat in our late-night cafe, Flori started enthusing about LaMonte Young and compositions that comprised only one note played for an hour, a day, even a week. And then some student would get up and put some interminable Pink Floyd record on the juke box. Even Pink Floyd were getting into this boring, meandering endless-solo music! It seemed like such a betrayal of the exciting, dynamic band I'd seen blowing audiences away with their almost atonal psychedelic blasts at the UFO Club.

Power Station were having none of it. They wanted to dispense with the nonsense, and streamline their music down to core basics. Vocals and basslines were totally dispensed with, solos frowned upon, and even the drums scaled back to the most pounding, insistent, basic of beats. Michael and Klaus had endless discussions of how they could pare the music back further, stripping the kit back to the basics to make it as streamlined as a machine. Flori said he had a rhythm box from one of the organs that Ralf had abandoned at their studio, and Klaus and Flori seemed to be negotiating how Klaus could duet with the machine, play against the machine, maybe even try to play _like_ the machine.

Sometimes Flori and Klaus would stay up all night, drinking black coffee and talking at speed about this new music that they wanted to create. They had become fanatical about rehearsing, and would often play for 8 or even 10 hours a day, starting at 6 in the evening, and going until 2 or 3 in the morning. But Michael struggled to stay awake during these sessions. Klaus and Florian had both given up studying to pursue music full-time, so they could eat, sleep and breath their "Dröhn Rock". But Michael was still registered at the Kunstakademie, and struggling to make it to both the painting studio and the rehearsal studio.

And this was a dilemma that I, too, was facing. Every morning, I left Flori sleeping, and cycled down to class. It was easy enough to make it through the Advanced Textiles Workshop only half awake, as I could operate the looms in my sleep. But Beuys' lectures - and better yet, his "open ring-discussions" - they were electrifying! I understood maybe half of them, not so much because my German was bad, but because his concepts were just so dazzling and so earth-shattering. I had been foolish enough to actually believe that you had to sign up to take his classes and had gone through the trouble of registering through the office, but I soon learned that I need not have bothered.

In fact, the first day of class, Beuys shuffled into the classroom with his odd limping gait, his felt hat jammed down low over his glittering eyes. He walked to the front of the room, stood up in front of us, and announced, softly at first, but with his voice slowly gaining volume as he spoke. >>I declare, in front of the whole Kunstakademie, that henceforth, I am abolishing entry requirements for my classes. Tell your friends. Tell your neighbours. Tell random strangers on the street who would never have dared to have thought themselves artists. Anyone who wishes to learn, may come to my classes and learn.<< And with this, he reached behind him, picked up the attendance roll I had so carefully manoeuvred myself onto, and in front of my very eyes, ripped it dramatically in half.

I gasped, thinking this was most un-German, but Beuys did not stop there. Leaving the central podium, he walked very slowly and deliberately up the central aisle of the lecture hall, and wrenched open the great doors to the hall. >>The doors<< he rumbled, almost loud enough to hear him across campus. >>of perception are opened! Anyone who wishes to leave, may leave. Rest assured, no one ever fails my classes. If you do not wish to be here, then go.<<

A couple of hippies in the back row exchanged glances, but no one actually seemed to believe him, until finally a tall, beatnik looking type with thick glasses stood up, almost as if testing the waters. We all held our breath as he walked to the end of the row, and slowly mounted the steps, but Beuys said nothing, he merely stepped back, smiling and extending his arms to allow him to pass. >>This is not my scene, man<< said the Beatnik. >>Too fucking weird.<<

>>Go, with my blessing<< said Beuys, smiling beatifically, then he turned back to the rest of us. >>But if you do decide to stay, then stay and be in all the way. Do not be passive consumers of your world. Be fully human, and be _artists_. Be the designers of your own destinies. I expect you to participate, every single one of you, to the fullest. I believe in direct action and direct democracy, and I practice it, in my day to day life, and in this lecture hall. I know all of you new students are looking at me with your mouths open like a school of fish, because I am the professor and you expect me to spoon feed you bits of information like children, but - no! I say no! Why should I know more than you, because I am standing on the podium? All of you, you are experts in your own lives and your own art, and you have as much right to hold the discourse as I do! I expect all of you, to speak! <<

He was magnificent, but so magnificent I was a little afraid. Turning to Myrthe, sitting beside me, with her mouth indeed very much open, I whispered to her, very quietly >>This is all very well for the loudmouths and the confident students, but for shy people like us, I fear this will be a disaster.<<

And suddenly Beuys was in front of me, his animated face looming very large as he thrust his hand towards me. Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes were very, very intense. >>What did you say?<< he asked, and I felt my face flushing, fearing I was about to be humiliated.

>>I did not say anything<< I replied very quietly, trying not to meet his eyes.

>>Yes, you did. And I think what you said was very important<< he insisted, proffering his extended hand even closer. >>Take my hand, and come up here and say it again.<< He smiled at me, and I noticed for the first time that beneath the faded scars on his face, he had a kind, and warm, and encouraging smile.

I took his hand and allowed him to pull me onto the podium, though I tried not to look out into the crowd. >>I said that this policy will be all very well for the loudmouths and the confident students, but for people like Myrthe - and indeed myself - who are very shy, I fear it will be a disaster. We will be drowned out.<<

There seemed to be a rustle of discussion passing through the class, as Beuys turned to me, and cupped my face in his hands, drawing my gaze towards his. Letting go of my fear, I looked up into his eyes. He had dark blues eyes, turned down a little at the corners, just like Ralf's, giving him the edge of sadness to his expression. But there was not the slightest whisper of sexuality or arrogance in the way he gazed at me; he just looked into my eyes as if he knew me, and I felt acceptance and understanding in that penetrating stare. 

>>Shy people are the best listeners, and the best noticers<< he said at last, and though his voice was very quiet, everyone in the lecture hall seemed to be holding their breaths. >>Shy people often have an instinctual connection to the world of intuition, rather than the world of words and noise and intellect. They speak with their hearts, not their voices. This is why I believe that shy people often make the best artists. But trust me - I will fight to make sure that even the shy people have a voice. This...<< And at last, he dropped his hands from my face, though there was something so... not paternal, but definitely _fatherly_ , about his touch, that I wished he had not. >>This is what I mean by direct democracy. Everyone gets a voice, not just the loud people or the important people or the rich people. And if you are lucky enough to have a loud voice, or a position of importance, then do your best to make sure that other people get heard! So that everyone gets heard, in this room, and in this world.<< He thumped the podium with one foot, to delineate his point, and at last, I was allowed to go back to my seat.

Though the whole class, he remained absolutely true to his word, and steered and guided the debate so that everyone got a chance to speak. He acted more like a referee or a ringmaster than a professor, bounding back to the chalkboard to write up people's thoughts, and connect them to one another with arrows and and lines and arcane symbols all his own.

By the end of two hours, I had resolved never to miss one of his lectures, ever. People became fanatical about his classes, they would start to queue up in the hall outside the lecture theatre for about half an hour before they began, to be assured of getting a seat. So I became one of the faithful, making a beeline for the front row, or as close as I could get. He had that kind of magnetic personality; I loved just being near him.

At one of the next sessions - I hesitate to call them lectures, because really they were more like boisterous political gatherings, with arguments, and occasionally even brawls breaking out - Michael appeared, though I knew he was not signed up to take the class. He sat down next to Myrthe and I with a nod, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands as he tried to absorb the goings-on. At the lecture after that, Emil materialised out of the crowd, saw Michael, and immediately trotted over to join him. But he froze as he saw me, his face troubled. Oh god, was he still angry at me? I did my best to smile at him, and look welcoming, and finally he shrugged and slipped into the empty seat on the other side of me. Tentatively, I moved my notebook towards him, and let him see my notes, so he could see what he had missed in the first twenty minutes of the class - debate - argument - happening - whatever it was the lecture had evolved into.

He nodded, and his face softened into a smile as his eyes scanned the notes. Maybe I was forgiven for falling in love with Flori? Towards the end of the lecture, as a couple of the more animated Feminists on campus had got up to argue with a particularly annoying Marxist, Emil nudged me, and dug in his rucksack, extracting a dog-eared copy of John Berger's _Ways of Seeing_.  >>Here. If you are interested in this subject, this Englishman has some interesting views.<<

>>Thank you<< I whispered back, shocked, perusing a few pages before taking note of the title and author. Was I really forgiven for Flori, or was he still just trying to be my tutor? But when I tried to hand it back, he shook his head.

>>Keep it<< he shrugged. >>I need to buy a German translation anyway.<<

I looked at him carefully, but the annoying Marxist with the straggly beard was shouting at the young feminists again, so loud in his anger that it was almost impossible to think. >>I do not believe in this 'direct democracy' idea, because some people are, quite simply, too stupid to vote. Uneducated, mindless cattle who do not know what is good for them.<<

>>Now, now<< said Beuys gently. >>Uneducated is not the same thing as stupid. I have said many times, that Direct Democracy should be linked to Universal Education. This is our project, what we are trying to do here, in this very room.<<

>>Education? Education is no good for these frivolous young women, with their heads full of false consciousness. You women just believe whatever it is you have last seen on the television, whether this is celebrities or consumer-products or whatever.<< spat the Annoying Marxist.

>>So why is this argument of impressionability only ever used against women, huh?<< asked one of the feminists. >>As if you male intellectuals never get your heads or your minds turned by celebrities such as John Lennon or Andreas Baader or Mao Zedong!<<

>>What?!<< exploded the Annoying Marxist. >>You frivolous girls, with your heads so full of clothes and records and music and pop stars and... and... _dancing_ , at discotheques, at the Creamcheese club, you seriously think to question _my_ politics? <<

The younger of the two women, a pretty blonde woman who looked terribly familiar, stepped up to the Marxist and looked him right in the face, her hands planted on her hips. >>As Emma Goldman once said, if I can't dance, it is _not_ my revolution, and I think she is a better authority than you... <<

Her voice was drowned out in noise and shouting and clapping, as even Emil climbed to his feet and roared his encouragement. I looked up at him, surprised by this sudden interest. Emil, a feminist? As the girl turned around, playing to the crowd, raising her arms and insisting that the revolution should have dance-music, I suddenly recognised her. She worked in the record shop downtown, where all of the students - including myself, and of course Emil - bought their vinyl. So that explained his sudden interest in feminism. I turned back to the book and just smiled, happy that we seemed to be friends again.

After the class, I desperately wanted to stay and discuss the arguments further, lingering with the students who would gather to argue with Beuys over coffee about ethnography, or shamanic voyages, or the Collective Subconscious, but instead, I had to cycle over to the Engineering School for my programming class and the few scant hours I could scrape together on the mainframe to work on my code.

Going back to computing class provoked an unintended burst of awkwardness. Although I had worked on my algorithm over the break (and had, to be fair, enjoyed teaching elements of programming to Flori, who had taken to code like a duck to water, treating it like a complicated word game) I had somehow managed to fall behind in my actual homework.

Grundesbach looked at me with an expression somewhere between confusion and alarm. >>Where is your partner, English girl?<<

>>My partner?<< I stuttered, blushing and looking down at my papers. I had so carefully tried to hide my relationship with Ralf from the class; were we to be embarrassingly rumbled, now that the relationship no longer existed?

>>Your lab partner. Where is Hütter today? We will be working in pairs this week, and for most of this semester.<<

I felt my face flushing like a blinking red LED warning light. >>Herr Hütter has transferred to the Technical Hochschule in Aachen to finish his architecture studies<< I explained apologetically.

>>Has he.<< Grundesbach actually took off his reading glasses and peered at me, as if holding me responsible for his student's abscondment, which I supposed in a weird way I was. >>I am not surprised. Aachen is a very good school, the best for Architecture in this region. He may do very well there. But of the pair of you non-Engineers, I honestly thought you were the one that would give up first. Congratulations for sticking it out, DeLay.<<

I dared to risk raising my eyes, and saw him looking at me with faint amusement. >>I still need access to the mainframe<< I muttered ungraciously.

>>Very well. Work with Schmidt and Hissel for now.<<

I looked over at Schmidt and Hissel with dismay. Neither of them looked particularly keen at the idea of working with me. >>Well<< snorted Schmidt, a lanky fellow with greasy hair and terrible spots. >>We have nearly completed our code already, so you're not getting the credit for _our_ work. <<

>>We might be able to get some good use out of her<< pointed out Hissel, a short, irritating boy with a large paunch. >>She can check the line numbers for us.<< As he dumped a large batch of computer print-out onto my desk, both of them started to laugh, an awful, self-satisfied tone.

I glanced down at the code, and saw that it was awful spaghetti code, riddled with GOTOs and hideous logical loops. Even in the first few lines, I could see errors, not the sort of errors that a computer would actually balk at and refuse to execute, but the sort that would eventually produce a result, albeit completely the wrong result. I did not want to work on this code, even if they had not laughed at me and treated me like a secretary, but this was insult on top of injury.

>>You know what?<< I said, heaving their code back onto Schmidt's desk. >>I still have some of Hütter's notes, and he did actually leave the magnetic tape with our code. So I will work on this project myself.<<

Grundesbach walked over and stood by the huddle of desks where we were arguing. >>You really are determined to work alone, DeLay? This is a complex project and usually requires teams of two or three.<<

>>I think it would be best. I will clearly only hold them back.<< I said very quietly, provoking another guffaw of laughter from Schmidt and Hissel.

The professor looked back and forth between me and the two boys, and for an awful moment, I thought he was actually going to push the issue, and insist that I join their team, and act like their secretary. But just for a second, Hissel made a rude gesture with his mouth, simulating fellatio with his tongue against his cheek, the kind of thing I had been ignoring all semester. But he did it just long enough for Grundesbach to see, and my breath caught in my throat, wondering how he would react. There was a part of me that wanted him to catch the boy by the scruff of his neck and haul him up in front of the class to humiliate him, the way the boy wanted to humiliate me. But of course he didn't; perhaps he knew it would only have been taken out on me in other ways.

Grundesbach sighed deeply, and arranged his bushy eyebrows into a sympathetic expression as he put his glasses back on. >>Very well, DeLay. Go for quality, rather than quantity. I will grade you on what you do complete, and not penalise you for what you are unable to finish, due to the loss of your partner.<<

I breathed a sigh of relief, and turned back to my own work, digging through my elephant bag until I had found the small notebook written in Ralf's spidery scrawl. Trying to decipher his tightly-packed handwriting was annoying, and yet oddly familiar, as if he were still there, sitting behind me, trying to tell me how to write my code.

On my way out of the class, I was halfway down the corridor when I heard someone calling my name. >>DeLay, please wait a moment?<<

I cringed, thinking of Schmidt and Hissel's behaviour, and steeling myself for more awfulness as I turned to confront the tall, stocky fellow with a ruddy crop of pimples and a thatch of blond hair like a German farmboy. >>What do you want?<<

>>I heard what you said, that Hütter has gone to Aachen. Schmidt and Hissing are jerks, the Professor should not have tried to make you work with them<< he told me.

>>HIssel<< I corrected testily.

>>I know.<< The engineering student grinned. >>We call him Hissing because he is such a mouth-breather.<<

I couldn't help myself; I did actually laugh, though I put my hand over my mouth to cover it.

>>But you are welcome to join Pfennig's and my team. We know you are a good worker.<< he offered, his eyes bright. But I was unimpressed, despite his friendly jokes, expecting some trick. After all, if he and Pfennig could joke about Hissing, lord knows what dirty things they said about me.

>>I prefer to work on my own. I'm sorry, but I need to get to the Computer Lab now<< I told him firmly, and started to walk away.

>>Well, if you change your mind, my name is Peter<< he called after me. >>You can leave a message for me in the Electronics Department.<<

I nodded briskly as I fled for the safety of the lab, wondering if all of my classmates where going to try it on, now that I no longer had what I now realised was the protective presence of Ralf. Their attitudes since he had left made me realise that all of our secrecy had fooled no one. They had all known we were dating, and that was the only reason I had been more or less left alone. I hated to find another way in which I was going to miss Ralf, but there it was. Without him, the awful engineering dorks all smelled fresh meat and came circling.

The computer lab, though, was where Ralf's absence seemed to linger most strongly. I had thought I would be relieved to be free of his interference, his irritating habits of coming up behind me and telling me >>You left off the semi-colon<< at the end of a line of code I had not finished typing. But in a strange way, I had come to get used to, and perhaps even rely on his "help".

Although I had always thought I worked best in complete silence, I found I missed the soft thrum of Schubert in the background, distracting the part of my mind that wandered and sometimes seemed to interfere in my logical capacities. But when I finally gave up, and turned around to put the record on the portable player, of course it was gone. I stared at the blank space on the shelf it had formerly occupied, and wondered if there was a computer lab in Aachen that was now resounding to the faint, scratchy sounds of that familiar record player. How could it be? I had hated being in a relationship with Ralf; I had loathed almost every minute of being his girlfriend. And yet I found myself, strangely missing his absence as a human being, as a friend. No, it was intolerable. I put all thoughts of the irritating Hütter aside, and forced my mind back to work.

When I was done in the computer lab, I would cycle down to Mintropstrasse (though I was still not allowed inside the studio) where I would meet Flori and the boys for a meal that was my supper and their breakfast, before they disappeared into the studio for the evening. Flori ate like a bird, pecking mostly at cakes and delicacies, though he liked to tank up on coffee in preparation for their intense, all-night sessions. He ate sensibly when he was at home, as I knew he could cook beautifully, when surrounded by a kitchen. But he just ate like a little boy insisting on chocolate cake and coca-cola for breakfast, when he was out with his band. Klaus and Michael laughed at us, they said we were both like two children both pretending to be the grown-ups, but I enjoyed those brief times together, when I felt like part of Flori's second family. But then, after dinner, instead of going home to relax, I would cycle back up to the Aldstadt for my second, or was it third, shift of the day at the Atelier.

To be honest, I was perhaps feeling a little guilty. During the blissful weeks over Christmas and New Year's break when Flori and I had done nothing but eat and sleep and make love between the occasional Power Station gig, I had grown very lazy. I had barely been round the Atelier at all, except to pick up more belongings to cart up to Golzheim.

So on the first day of class, Silke had come striding up to me in a very annoyed state, and instantly demanded >>Where the hell have you been? Did you not get my messages? I asked you to call me, maybe half a dozen times!<<

I stared at her, my mouth opened. I had indeed seen the messages from Myrthe, I had just forgotten them. >>I am sorry<< I tried to soothe her. >>I just plain forgot.<<

>>You forgot?<< Silke snorted. >>Or you have been too busy laying the pipe with that damn piper, Florian Schneider-Esleben, to remember your friends and your business associates?<<

I looked down at the floor, hoping my face was not flushing too much. _Now_ , the Düsseldorf rumour mill decided to work? >>As if you have any right to criticise me for shagging<< I said very quietly.

>>I don't care who you shag! Shag Ralf, shag Florian, shag Wolfgang shagging Flür for all I care, but just remember. Work. Always. Comes. First.<< she almost shouted at me, and I hunched my shoulders, terrified that the other students would hear her.

>>I am sorry<< I repeated. >>Well, what is it that is so urgent? I thought we had sold all of the Christmas dresses.<<

>>Well, we can't rest on those laurels forever! The new season is practically upon us! We have to have our spring collection put together, like.... yesterday! Johannes, the manager of the Kö Boutique, has been asking for the previews for weeks! I can't keep putting him off.<<

I cast a glance out the window at the miserable January weather. >>Spring? Spring is not for months, in case you hadn't noticed.<<

>>The Spring _Collection_ , you dummy, has to be sent to the distributors, the magazines, the shop buyers, as soon as the January sales are over, to tempt the buyers back into the shops.<< Silke explained quickly, as if she were teaching something elementary to a baby.

>>Shit<< I said. >>It's so cold I can't even think of spring, and we have to design clothes for it already?<<

>>Yes<< she insisted. >>Come round the Atelier as soon as your classes are over, I will show you what I have been working on. I need light fabrics, silks and cotton, none of those heavy wool weaves any more. You are taking Advanced Screen Printing this semester, yes?<<

>>Yes...<< I had already promised to see I could print some cheap promotional T-shirts for Power Station.

>>Good. I want you to work on some printed cottons for me. Bold designs! New things! Computer generated! Science! Think about it... Something that screams: New!<<

I groaned outwardly, but inside my mind was racing. >>We have been studying advances in circuitry in my computing class... I always thought transistors were very beautiful, and the new integrated circuits... the wiring can be very beautiful, I think.<<

>>Get on it! It's 1971 already! We need to have these designs ready last week.<<

And so I found myself trudging up the three flights of steps to the Atelier at the point of the evening where I just wanted to curl up in Flori's bed with a good book. Silke, however, was very impressed with my new Polaroid camera. She started what she declared a "mood board" on the wall of the kitchen, sticking up images, photos, bits of clipped out magazines with pins. Myrthe and I got into the spirit of it, too, and in her neat handwriting, Myrthe wrote out large signs on coloured bits of construction paper that declared "NEW!" all over the flat, pointing to images that had particularly caught our attention. Silke was going through a bit of a thing for Pre-Raphaelites, but of course she wanted space-age, futuristic Pre-Raphaelite beauties, more Joan of Arc in silver metal armour than the Lady of Shallot in those gaudy peasant dresses.

Our housemate Michael and his new best friend Klaus took the piss out of our 'mood board'. Klaus, in particular, enjoyed sticking up rude images in surreal combinations, and we would find clips of girls from pornographic magazines tacked up in between our fabric swatches, or writhing across our clipped-out illustrations, shouting >>NEW!<< The pair of them had such a funny dynamic. Michael was such a goody-goody - well, no, that sounds unkind, and I hated that word when it was applied to me. Michael is and has always been a a kind, sensitive, caring man, very gentle and very concerned with doing the right thing at all times, though sometimes he erred on the side of being a bit too proper. Klaus, on the other hand, was an utterly unrestrained wild man, always a total rebel, who would do or say absolutely anything to anyone, and push all of the boundaries just because he could. They were complete polar opposites! And yet, they seemed fascinated by each other, and the endless interplay between their personalities was often very, very amusing.

It became a sort of a running joke between them. >>NEW!<< Klaus would bark at Michael, strutting round the kitchen like a demented chicken. >>Everything must be NEW! NEW NEW NEW!!!<<

Michael would look disapprovingly back at him at first, but then he would seem kind of tugged into the fun, picking up a bit of fabric and draping it round his neck, posing like a fashion model. >>I think you mean the _new_ New. <<

>>THE NEWEST NEW!!!<< Klaus countered, escalating the teasing, seizing the piece of fabric Silke had been working on, and wrapping round his head, fixing it with a pair of chopsticks.

>>Fuck off, both of you<< snapped Silke, trying to snatch her fabric back, as Klaus danced back out of reach.

Michael looked so innocent, with that baby-face of his, but his sense of mischief was being slowly warped by his bandmate. He turned up at breakfast the next morning, and slyly placed a box of cereal on the table, pretending to walk it over towards us, until I noticed the word emblazoned across the packaging. >>New!<< he intoned very very seriously, just before collapsing into a fit of sleep-deprived giggles.

Myrthe and I exchanged looks, and rolled our eyes, even as Michael shook with laughter. Lack of sleep, it seemed, was taking its toll on all of us. NEW! cereal. NEW! washing powder. NEW! cream of tomato soup. Michael and Klaus found it all impossibly hilarious. It was all very, very Pop Art, as we would learn in class.

But Silke, Myrthe and I did our best to pay the NEW! Twins no attention as we buckled down to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that this is supposed to be 1971, and John Berger's Ways Of Seeing was not actually published under 1972. Kraftwerk are ~from the future~, OK?


	30. Morphogenesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Power Station find themselves almost overcome by their sudden success, Ralf strikes back in a rather strange interview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The interview referenced is real, you can read it, plus translation, [on Kraftwerk Endless](http://endlesskraftwerk.tumblr.com/post/57997365944/what-has-changed-and-what-has-remained-one-of-the).

Slowly, both of our little three-pieces grew. Power Station started to play gigs throughout West Germany, driving out in the afternoon, playing a gig in the evening, and then driving back that night because they couldn't afford to spend their appearance fee on a hotel. Anni went along to most of them, and would kip in the van during soundcheck so that she could drive home, while they slept in the back. Myrthe and I went to some of the more local gigs, and would make the effort to come along if they played at the weekend.

With part of the money that had finally come in from the Christmas dresses, I bought a silk-screen of my own to print with, and as practice, I set about making Power Station T-shirts emblazoned with their characteristic traffic cone icon. They did reimburse us for the materials, but the gigs, and the merchandise, records and T-shirts they sold at them, were their only source of income. That said, when they played Leverkusen, almost a home-town gig, just between Köln and Düsseldorf, they played to over a thousand people, and sold out the entire run of 200 T-shirts that we had printed. All of us ate very well, for several weeks after that success.

It was such a shock for me to go along to that gig. Since I had only seen the intimate home-town performances at art galleries and the Creamcheese Club, it was a surprise to walk into such a huge auditorium and hear hundreds and hundreds of people chanting >>Power Station - clap clap - Power Station - clap clap - Power Station<< before they went on. My friends, it seemed, had become a big success! Ruckzuck had been all over the radio for a couple of months now, the record was selling well, and people were going wild with the anticipation of hearing it.

Myrthe and I had been backstage for the soundcheck, watching from the wings, sharing the easy camaraderie as Klaus and Michael joked back and forth with one another. Klaus would always lead off with some outrageous suggestion for maximum effect, at which Michael would kind of twist his mouth into a hesitant little smile and say >>Hmm, do you really think so, Klaus?<<

Which would of course only spur Klaus on to more of whatever naughtiness he had initiated. And then Michael, reluctantly of course, would allow himself to be tempted into Klaus's little games, which was what both of them had intended all along, but Klaus enjoyed playing the ringleader, as Michael enjoyed being tempted. That same tension, in their humour, in their personal lives together, it was what made their music so electrifying, Klaus so spiky and unconstrained in his musical precision, but Michael so calm and restrained in his passionate playing. Even their soundchecks took the form of sonic explorations which were both wild and astonishingly beautiful.

Klaus had taken to wearing all white onstage, white overalls and a floppy white shirt with extravagant bat-wing arms which sometimes made it a little difficult for him to play, but looked absolutely fantastic with his striking face framed by his long, blond hair. Michael, encouraged by Myrthe's attention, would wear form-fitting silk shirts open at the neck to show off his slim physique. Both of them already looked like rock stars. Flori, though, Flori looked just a little bit off, no matter what he wore. I had already started to notice that he looked possibly stranger in dungarees and a T-shirt than he looked in more formal clothes. He had an old-fashioned face that looked a little out-of-time in the scruffy clothes that were then in style, so I encouraged him to dress up a little. I wanted him to wear the tight orange satin trousers that showed off his slim buttocks so wonderfully, but that still required some persuasion.

Myrthe and Anni and I had already agreed to go and man the merch stall in Leverkusen while they played, and I was actually looking forward to seeing what it was like, to see them as part of a huge audience at a massive rock gig. The noise was terrific! Not just the music of the band, but the roar of the crowd! It was exhilarating and a little frightening, the noise of that many people expressing their joy and admiration of the music. I found it a little hard to hear, when I was supposed to be selling things, so I would end up just pointing to the price list, rather than asking for the money.

I knew all of the songs by now; I recognised the long talking-flute piece they always played first, but Michael played it quite differently, more aggressively than Ralf had played it. Then there was a song that Flori played violin on. He played violin in such a strange way, laying it across his lap and drawing the bow across it sideways, not even looking at his fingering, but playing by ear, those wild middle-eastern scales that always reminded me of that very first night he'd sat on the floor of my dorm room, fiddling with Myrthe's radio to pick up Turkish stations.

And then Ruckzuck! I wanted to get up and dance, as the crowd surged forward towards the stage, but I had promised to watch the stall. Everyone stamped their feet and clapped their hands as Flori lead them on a merry chase, faster and faster, spinning out of control, like I had no idea how Flori could play the flute so fast, his eyes wild as his cheeks puffed in and out. The three of them were clearly enjoying themselves; even from the back of the room I could see those moments of communication I knew so well, the way Klaus would watch Flori's every movement of his head as they hurtled towards the chase sequence. Then the way that Michael's wall of hair would part and his face would emerge, his eyes bright as he grinned at Flori, waiting for the signal to begin again. I never got tired of watching them. The first few times I had seen them perform the tune, it had been a complete mystery how they all managed to keep up, and stop and start at the same time. But the more I observed them, the more I learned to watch for those tiny moments of eye contact, and marvelled at how skilled they were at communicating so much with so little.

Unlike little Wolfgang, the Leverkusen crowd went wild for Vom Himmel Hoch, roaring their approval at every air raid and bomb strike. The band seemed to unleash something primal in the defeated Germans with that piece, and it always got a huge response. Then they played some new songs that hadn't been on the record. That was the most exciting part of the evening, for me, watching them create new music out of absolutely nothing. The look on Flori's face was incomparable. He closed his eyes and seemed to bob and weave in time with this living, breathing organism the three of them were creating together, his flute like a wild silver fish darting in and out of the river of sound.

They left the stage in the familiar game at the end of the set, and the audience howled and stamped their feet and clapped until they came back. German audiences amazed me, how they would catch a beat and hold it, clapping in perfect rhythm, for three, even five minutes at a time, unlike the disorderly explosions of noise from English audiences. Even in spontaneous expressions of approval, the Germans were orderly above all things, it seemed. Some people even knew their names, and shouted for >>MICHAEL!<< or >>KLAUS!<< or, best of all >>FLO-RIIII-AAAN!<< That made me feel so proud of my friends, though I didn't dare to join in, for fear they would recognise my voice and tease me for it.

Finally, they came out, and played another song, this one just a spontaneous, freeform jam session, the three of them flexing their musical muscle with both restraint and power. Every encore, it was a new song I had never heard before, composed on the spot, and usually forgotten the next day, though they were so accomplished at their improvisation that none of the audience even guessed that it was not a piece they had been working on for months.

After the gig, we packed up the little there was left that hadn't sold, and fought our way against the tide of young people leaving the hall, to make our way backstage and congratulate our lovers. Because Leverkusen was so close to home, they had agreed to stay for a little 'aftershow party', and the dressing room was crowded with people. Some of them I recognised from other gigs - and of course Holger and Jaki were there - but to my astonishment, I discovered that there were women there. Strange women in scanty clothes and thick make-up, who seemed determined to make the acquaintance of the band!

Myrthe and I laughed behind our hands at this odd turn of events, even as Anni fumed slightly, since a couple of these strange creatures had already decided that Klaus was the star of the show, with his rock star sunglasses and his wild hair. Flori just looked confused, blushing heavily and staring off into the ceiling, trying to look anywhere but at the women trying to get his attention. I was torn between conflicting desires, between the urge to go over and rescue him and put him out of his obvious distress, and the curious impulse to stand back, and watch what he would actually do if one of them tried to _pounce_ on him. It was a bit of a shock to realise that I actually trusted Flori implicitly. I didn't think for a minute that any of these girls would actually capture his attention.

But finally, he saw me and waved desperately for me to come over. Feeling a bit guilty, I pretended to help Myrthe stow the box with the last few records in it, then trotted over to release him by kissing my hullo onto his furrowed face. The girls who had been attempting to chat him up glared at me with positively poisonous expressions (I wondered if this indeed, was what Claudia had seen on my face) as Flori put his arms around me and kissed me in return.

>>This is my girlfriend, Zhan<< he explained proudly, his arm still around my waist, and the girls seemed to evaporate and slink away within minutes.

>>You have actual _groupies_ << I told him, half shocked, half delighted, as I watched them turn their attention to the support band, who, to be honest, were two very serious looking slightly older men from Berlin, who did not particularly look like they wanted the attention either.

>>Is that what they are?<< Flori observed with a detached, almost scientific interest. >>They're a little bit frightening, to be honest.<<

>>You should probably just get used to it. Be gracious<< I told him, and guided him back to his bandmates.

>>V-2!<< cried Klaus, slapping him on the back and passing him a beer. >>This is the life, eh?<< Flori's face turned a little red as he glanced at me, but the nick-name seemed to have stuck.

\----------

I was hungover and absolutely exhausted at school the next day, and fell asleep on the sofa at the Atelier, but still, it was worth it to feel a part of the success that was taking my partner's band almost by surprise. Even if Silke did give both Myrthe and I a bollocking for supposedly putting our personal lives ahead of our professional lives. Really, I just thought it was envy, since Myrthe and I both had young, attractive boyfriends in a popular band, while her sex life surely could not have been particularly exciting. I knew she was getting bored with her 40-something married fashion photographer, and the way she talked, she seemed to be spending an awful lot of time - and not necessarily professional time - going out to clubs with this manager from the Kö Boutique.

He, at least, was unmarried, and having seen him once or twice, I surmised he was a bit more handsome and certainly better dressed than Helmut. But he was in his 30s at least, and I suspected he might be a bit of a good-for-nothing playboy, as he had not earned his role, but was merely the son of the boutique's owner! Still, I could not believe that either of these ancient, decrepit men could provide much satisfaction for her, though it was true, our careers seemed to be opening up through the contacts she had made.

Still, somehow, between schoolwork and Power Station gigs, Myrthe and Silke and I found the time to work steadily on a new collection to sell at that posh Kö boutique in the spring. With an uncanny knack, Silke seemed to have guessed that the minidress was going to give way to the maxidress during the spring and summer of 1971. But instead of churning out shapeless sacks and peasant dresses that turned even slender women into sacks of laundry, she had decided to take up my challenge, and created clothes that flattered women. The Space-Princess dresses grew sleeker and more streamlined at the top, still with our trademark suspension wires providing unexpected flashes of flesh, before flaring out to long, gauzy skirts that hid a multitude of sins beneath.

When I saw the initial drawings in her sketchbook, I started working with lighter fabrics, silk and cotton, which were more difficult to weave than wools, but would hold more delicate patterns when printed. For these designs, I used colours based on the natural palettes that we had taken from the Pre-Raphaelites on our mood boards. (And even, occasionally, some of the gaudy, bold colours from Klaus's porn.) But instead of flowers and animals, I created intricate shell-like patterns based on the geometric patterns of modern architecture (many thanks to the library of architectural journals in Paul S-E's office, next door to our flat) or swirling designs that recalled Art Nouveau tracery, but were actually based on computer circuit board connections.

After hours, in the computer lab, I was still working on trying to get my algorithm generator code to create generative patterns of its own, in the hopes that one day it would come up with something interesting enough to build a design around. While playing a gig up in Bonn, Flori had found me a fascinating book which included Alan Turing's later work in Morphogenesis, partly because he had seen my father namechecked in the bibliography, and partly because he thought that some of the theories on Fibonacci phyllotaxis might be helpful for generating pleasing creative designs similar to those in nature. Well, it couldn't hurt to try, I thought, sitting at what might once have been a dining room table, but was now our workbench, adapting the equations for my code as Flori sat opposite me, intently soldering away on his voice-encoding box.

When I took the new code back to school, and fed the programme into the mainframe, the program took off very quickly, and started spitting out lines and lines of computer-generated patterns based on the reaction-diffusion system of chemical pigments. Most of them were fairly dull, evenly spaced geometrical patterns, but when I increased the complexity of the interactions, I got some quite fun sorts of spotted sorts of patterns that looked like the camouflage coats of wild animals. Old habits were hard to break, and I found myself turning to the empty space of a man who was not there, to exclaim >>Look at this, Ralf! Isn't it amazing?<<

But there was no one there. It was only my imagination conjuring up the severe young man with the long hair, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his button nose to tell me how his code would have generated far more interesting patterns on the first run.

My time was nearly up on the mainframe, so I saved the code, and printed it out, then on an impulse - wanting someone to react to my work - printed out a yard or two of the random spot generator to show Flori. But as I was walking out of the lab, I was so intent upon the odd symmetries of the pattern that I nearly collided with another student walking in. I nearly jumped out of my skin! My head was so full of ghosts of Ralf, I wondered for a second if I had somehow conjured him out of thin air.

>> _Wie geht's_ , DeLay<< Oh, phew. It was only Peter again. >>How's the code going?<<

>>Fine, fine>. I murmured, stuffing my animal print into my carpet-bag so he couldn't go back and tell Grundesbach that I was mucking about on school time. >>How's yours coming along?<<

Annoyingly, Peter actually pulled out a stack of punchcards, and started to _tell_ me, in intricate detail, the problems he was having with the code. He was an electronics student who came from a mechanic's background, and he enjoyed building things, he told me, in a low monotone. He liked soldering, wiring, testing the resistance of electronics - for crying out loud, he still made his own transformers by hand - and though the maths didn't faze him at all, the _abstract_ nature of code was proving flummoxing for him. He loved building computers, putting them together from circuit boards, but programming them was another kettle of fish.

I backed away slowly, cursing my foolishness for allowing myself to get caught up in the conversation at all. I had taken it for granted, the peace I had enjoyed while the other students considered me Ralf's property. >>Look, I'm very sorry, Peter, but we will have to catch up in class next week. I am... already late for meeting someone.<<

>>Very well; I shall see you in class.<< To my relief, he did not appear to be offended as I dashed away down the hall, but I did suspect that I would actually be buttonholed for more clumsy computer-nerd flirtation at our next class.

Dumping my carpet-bag in my bicycle's basket, I cycled home post-haste, to meet Flori for dinner and show him the result of the code he had inspired. To my delight, Flori was absolutely enthralled with the result. >>Do you mean to tell me that you just put in those equations, which predicted chemical diffusion based on simple Fibonacci sequences, and your computer came back with... leopard print? That's _amazing_. <<

>>Yeah, it does look a bit like leopard print, doesn't it?<< I laughed. >>Thirty years of computer development, to come up with... exactly the same pattern as wild cats in Africa.<<

>>But think of how many millions of years it took to produce the leopard<< enthused Flori. >>All of that evolution, natural selection to select for the most perfect camouflage. But it's something a computer can recreate with a few algorithms. That's absolutely astonishing. I love it!<<

I wanted to hug him as he blinked excitedly at my silly computer-generated leopard-print. It might not look like much on paper, but I was just so overjoyed that he understood my wonder at the process that had produced it.

>>You should show it to Silke, see if you lot can do the first completely computer-synthesised textile design<< he urged me.

Silke, however, was less than impressed when I programmed the Jacquard cards and wove the design into a loose, shaggy fabric I thought complimented the animal feel. >>What the hell, Jan? Why are you showing me leopard print? That's so completely 1950s. It's 1971, we wanted to do new, new, NEW! designs. No one's going to wear animal prints that are 20 years out of date.<<

>>But it's computer generated from Alan Turing's work on Morphogenesis...<< I tried to explain, but she was uninterested.

Sighing deeply, I put the computer generated leopard print fabric away, resolving to hang it up somewhere Flori and I could appreciate it, and went back to work on my art nouveau circuit-board pattern. Silke had blocked out some of the designs in plain white cotton to get the proportions right and build templates and patterns from which she could produce copies more easily, but she wanted the prints, like, yesterday, so that she could see how the whole design would hang together. So I had a lot of work to do, very quickly. 

But she was delighted with the circuit-board prints and the architectural shells, which worked perfectly with her new floaty space-princess dresses. And we were doing it completely from scratch this time, on a far more industrial scale than the tiny collection of half a dozen hand-sewn dresses. From a random assemblage of watercolour sketches, and masses of screen-printed and hand-woodblocked cotton, Silke and Myrthe sat down with new, electric sewing machines and the template pieces, and slowly started to come up with a rack full of clothes.

When we had the spring clothes in reasonable shape, Silke brought Helmut up to the Atelier to photograph them. Again, I had been drafted in to wear the things, not because I had the best figure (that was definitely Silke, who actually had a cleavage) but because I was the tallest. Really, we should have paid to have a professional model do it, but we didn't have the money. I was very uncomfortable about the deal that Silke had worked out with Helmut - not even because he was creepy and sleazy and I didn't like the idea of her fucking a married man - but because I did not like giving away so much of our hard-won money to a man who did nothing but turn up after we had done all the hard work, and bark orders at me to look more 'haughty' as I posed.

A thousand DM might have seemed like an unfathomably huge amount of money, but after the boutique had taken its commission, then Helmut had had his share, and we paid for the materials, and the bills we had incurred along the way, the resulting money, split three ways, meant that we eyed Helmut's share with increasing resentment. Really, we might have been better off just paying him his hourly rate for the photography sessions.

But as it was, I did my best to try to view it as an impromptu photography class. Under the guise of flattery, I pumped him for information which I tried to put to use in my experiments with the Polaroid. And wow, did I find his condescending attitude towards me difficult to learn from, after the relaxed and experimental atmosphere of the Kunstakademie. But that, I suppose, was a lesson in and of itself, about what I would have to deal with, when I left the hippie, countercultural atmosphere of the art school to enter the competitive design world.

>>What on earth do you want to learn about light metres for, lovey?<< he said superciliously, after I asked him innocently why he didn't use a flash, though really, I didn't suppose he needed one in the daylight-flooded Atelier. >>It's your job to stand there and look sexy, not to worry your pretty little head over the technical details.<<

Suppressing the urge to punch him, I smiled prettily and picked up the piece of equipment he had gestured at. >>But surely it will help me to look my best if I understand how to use the light to my advantage? You are so skilled at photography, everyone says you are the best in Düsseldorf, I'm quite sure you can give me the most useful tips.<< I smiled brightly as I said this, a lesson I had come to learn well from Silke, that every self-important man who thought he was clever or talented was susceptible to a little bit of flattery.

>>Well<< said Helmut, puffing himself up as he took the light metre back from me, and turned it the right way up. >>You see these cells here? No, don't put your fingers on them, lovey. They measure the ambient light in the room. It's best not to use direct lighting, as you get a glare from that, but see the large silvery screens I use underneath the skylights? Deflectors. Deflected light is prettier, softer, more diffuse.... Less harsh on a woman's skin.<<

As he pontificated on the correct way to light a woman's face, exposing his knowledge with narcissistic delight, the same way Klaus sometimes flexed his drummer's muscles for girls at the aftershows, I turned the piece of equipment over and over in my hands, as if I didn't have a clue what to do with it, but really I was memorising the settings on it.

I went, the next afternoon, to a second-hand camera shop in the student district, and bought as similar a light metre as I could afford, and went home to experiment with it on my favourite subject. My principle subject, of course, was not fashion, but Power Station. Flori, who might well have been angling to borrow the Polaroid more often, bought me a beautiful professional quality Leica camera for my 19th birthday in January. I took that to gigs, and even used it to take some promotional press shots of the band. Flori was so impressed with the results when they were developed that he suggested they might even allow me into the studio to take some shots of the group as they worked.

Ha! As if! The way that the boys spoke sometimes, I thought that maybe it would rain blood and hail locusts if a girlfriend stepped inside the gates of that hallowed yellow industrial building on Mintropstrasse. But I was always too busy to push the issue, run off my feet, trying to keep school, an intense relationship and a career as a designer afloat.

The weeks flew by, because we were so busy. Silke drove us so hard, but I drove myself harder, slaving over my coursework for Beuys' class. (I admit, it is possible that I had a slight crush on my teacher, and wanted to impress him, so I wrote up a breathless description of morphogenesis, and "How The Leopard Got His Spots" and turned it in hoping that it would amuse him.) And just before the Easter Break, Silke, Myrthe and I somehow managed to deliver a a set of beautiful new clothes to the Kö Boutique.

After all that activity, I was looking forward to the week off, not least because Florian's birthday fell in the middle of it. With the last of my share of the profit from our dresses, I had splurged and bought my lover an expensive gift I knew he would love - one of the new High Fidelity Phillips Tape Cassette players - so that he could record and play live recordings he made of the band at gigs, at home, on that beautiful sound system we had inherited from his father.

Across Easter Weekend itself, the Creamcheese Club had booked what they called an "Experimental Music Festival". On Good Friday night, The Can - or rather, Can, as they were calling themselves now, so perhaps Ralf had not been completely pedantic - were headlining; on Saturday Power Station were playing; and on Sunday, there was this exciting new band, Cluster, who had recently arrived in Düsseldorf from Berlin and apparently were friends with Beuys from way back.

Claudia was home for the holidays, so Flori and I waited for the opportune moment we knew his parents were leaving on their own holidays, and walked down to see her in that huge family home near the Theodore-Heuss-Brücke. >>You should get a bicycle<< I teased Flori on the way. >>It takes twenty minutes to walk, but it's only five minutes cycling.<<

Flori looked doubtful. >>Dangerous beasts, bicycles. You'll never catch me on one.<<

We climbed the balcony and knocked on the window of Claudia's room, which she shrieked with joy as she opened. >>Look at you two! Flori, I hardly recognise you.<<

>>What? Why?<< he protested as he hugged his sister.

>>The brother I know always used to wear such terrible clothes<< she teased. >>You never dressed so stylishly until you got a girlfriend.<<

Flori blushed sheepishly, but still looked fairly pleased with himself. He had definitely started taking more pride in his appearance since he had realised I actually enjoyed looking at him. >>She is good for me, you think?<<

>>Very good.<< Claudia grinned at me, and I felt myself blush. >>Oh, by the way, Dad left this for you.<<

>>What is it?<< Flori looked deeply suspicious as Claudia handed over a magazine.

>>Interview he found in the Köln press. You know, I think he might actually be rather proud of you and that 'racket of a band' now that you're turning up in newspapers and things.<<

Flori frowned as he looked at it. >>But we haven't done any interviews with the Köln press. Düsseldorf, Frankfurt, even as far away as Bremen, yes. But the Köln press hates us because of the silly internecine rivalry with Düsseldorf.<<

>>That is definitely you<< insisted Claudia, pointing to a rather cute photo of Flori in a pair of dark sunglasses, playing flute into a pile of electronics. I had actually taken it at a gig a few weeks earlier and they had posted it off with their last press release.

Flori's frown abruptly turned to an expression of alarm. >>It's an interview with Ralf.<<

>>Why is Ralf giving interviews, if he's left the band?<< I blurted out.

>>I don't know.<< Florian's face was dark indeed.

>>Well, what does he say?<<

Flori shrugged as he perused the text quickly. >>It is a promotional interview in support of the album. He is complimentary about the music, he mentions the single... God in heaven, he can't even be pleased with the success of the band, he says it all doesn't matter at all, well, easy for him to say since he hasn't been the one touring all over West Germany to achieve it!<<

>>Typical Ralf<< I snorted, waiting patiently as his eyes scanned the page. But suddenly his gaze seemed to catch something, and his face crumpled. >>What is it? What did he say?<<

>>The interviewer asked him why he left the group<< Flori said quietly.

>>He promised<< I spat. >>He promised he would not say anything...<<

>>He said, but he did not say.<< Flori handed the paper to me, turning away so as to read no more.

I bent down, reading Ralf's words, hearing them aloud in my head, in his voice, in his typical tone, jaunty to the point of arrogance. >> _I would like to say the following, that this departure is incomprehensible for many, but for me this was a very natural thing. You may compare my break with the band with that of an erotic relationship with a woman, which has cooled down with time. If one finds himself at such a point, it is nonsensical to try and continue_... Oh Christ, what a dissembling bastard << I spat.

>>As I said<< agreed Flori. >>He did not say, but he very definitely said.<<

>>But what on earth is this he says next... _It is not that I’ve isolated myself completely from the group, I still have a pretty good relationship with Power Station, which reflects in sessions, personal conversations and other things._ Have you heard from him since he left?<<

Flori shook his head quickly, though he seemed too choked up to speak.

>>What about Michael or Klaus or...<<

>>No.<< He cut me off quickly. >>None of us. I don't understand why he's lying.<<

>>Maybe he's not lying. When was this interview conducted?<< I asked.

Claudia coughed gently. >>I think I have an idea. Ralf and I went down to Köln a few weeks ago, visiting my father as he was giving a technical tour of the airport to some architectural students. It was supposed to be a field trip, to gain experience for the exam. Papa and I went to dinner together, but Ralf said he had other plans to take care of. I suppose he must have gone to do it then.<<

>>So it's recent.<< I stared at the interview some more. At the end, almost as a postscript, the interviewer had asked _Do you already have specific plans for the future?_ Ralf's answer sounded so forlorn, completely devoid of his normal jaunty overconfidence. _No, not really, but I have enough to do with my studies in architecture, which I want to complete in any case, and unfortunately I still haven’t found other people who could express their personality musically._ >>You know<< I said, feeling my voice faltering. >>Maybe he's not actually lying. Maybe it's wishful thinking, maybe it's his way of...<<

Florian turned back around to me, his eyes so full of pain that I stopped, even before he gently took the magazine from me and placed it, quite deliberately, into the rubbish bin. >>I would prefer, my love, not to speak of this.<<

As he turned around, staring out the window moodily, Claudia fished it out of the rubbish and thrust it back into the recesses of her desk, catching my eye and making a face. >>We are still going to the club tonight, yes? The course is much more difficult than we expected and I have been studying too hard. I need to drink, and I need to dance. Now I know I can dance to The Can, so we are still going, right Flori?<<

As he turned around, Flori did his best to readjust his face into a smile, but his eyes were still troubled. >>Alright, my dear sister. Shall I drive us to the club, so that you can drink, or would you prefer to take a taxi?<<

>>Taxi<< said Claudia and I, almost in unison, then laughed as we realised that neither of us had so little sense as to get in a car with Flori at the wheel.


	31. Cluster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Beuys hosts a "Festival Of Sounds" at the Creamcheese Club over the Easter Weekend, Claudia finds herself inexorably drawn to one of the new musicians.

Claudia was determined to have a good time at the music festival, so I did my best to join her in her drinking and dancing, but Florian was distant for the rest of the night. At first, I tried to hang back and talk to him, but he seemed to prefer being left alone. When he acted like that, I had learned, it really was best to leave him alone. He would come to me and seek me out when he wanted to talk about it, otherwise he would get more and more crotchety and withdrawn if I pressed him on it.

So instead I hung out in a little gaggle with Claudia and Silke and Myrthe, catching up on all the gossip from the scene. Beuys, who had organised the festival and invited all the bands, turned up with two friends, apparently the special guests from Berlin who would be performing on Sunday night. Dieter, who apparently had once been one of Beuys' students, was the smaller of the pair, with shoulder-length dark hair and a warm, open smile that seemed to be perpetually in motion. Hans-Joachim, by contrast, was tall and thin and somewhat aloof, with a very typical German face, long pointed nose and high cheekbones.

Claudia kept looking at the pair with great curiosity. >>Well, _he's_ handsome << she whispered to me over the top of her wineglass.

>>Which one?<< I whispered back, feeling like a schoolgirl.

>>The tall one, of course.<<

>>Oh, I thought the little one that's talking to Beuys was much cuter. I like his smile. He reminds me of someone, but I can't quite think whom.<<

>>But he's so short. You wouldn't want to go to bed with a man that much shorter than you, would you, Jan? I'd much prefer the tall, dignified looking one<< she giggled.

>>Claudia<< I reminded her sharply. >>You're engaged.<<

>>Don't remind me<< Claudia laughed >>And I won't tell my brother that you fancy that dwarf. Speaking of which, oh, do look out, Wolfgang's about.<< And with that, she put her empty glass down, and skipped over to say hello to Beuys, leaving me to field the diminutive drummer as he wandered over to join us.

>>Hello, Jan, had any mechanical breakdowns lately?<< he teased, with that weasley little smile. I conceded to be greeted, though he had to stand on his tip-toes to kiss my cheek.

>>No, it's been smooth sailing since the petulant VW went to Aachen with the petulant Ralf. How's your apprenticeship?<< Wolfgang grinned; he had never forgiven Ralf for stealing Michael, and seemed to enjoy it when I insulted the erstwhile organist.

And so I stood, listening to Wolfgang talk about the architectural office where he was working, but I couldn't stop looking over his shoulder to see what Claudia was up to. Beuys had greeted her warmly, kissed her on both cheeks, then introduced her to the friends from Berlin. Claudia smiled at both of them, and shook hands, but as her eyes met those of the taller one, some electric current seemed to pass between them. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but the taller man's head seemed to twitch to one side as he considered her. He still hadn't let go of her hand, as he replied. Another minute, and the pair of them disappeared to the bar together.

They talked for the rest of the night. I couldn't get a word in edgewise, even after I managed to dodge Wolfgang and his annoying over-friendliness. I felt a bit disappointed, as I'd come to the club to dance, but Claudia was more interested in talking urgently with her new best friend, than in dancing with me. But as The Can took the stage, and Jaki saw me, and winked, pointing a drumstick in my direction, I felt my hips start to move with a will of their own. I was having a dance, even if it was with myself.

But secretly, I was really more than a little cross with Claudia. Why was every single one of my friends seemingly intent on swapping out their partners as soon as soon as someone better came along? Just to prove my point, I saw Silke over by the bar, flirting very heavily with a man who had his back to me. Was that such a good idea, when she was already balancing two affairs, and both of them with business associates? But as he turned, I realised it was none other than Emil. Was Silke crazy? Flirting with Emil, as if this had not already lead to disaster on two occasions! Wrenching my eyes away, I concentrated on Jaki's pulsing drumbeat, letting myself be carried away.

Two songs in, though, I felt a gentle touch on my hips from behind. For a moment, I tensed, fearing Wolfgang, then wondering if Claudia had said something untoward to the attractive new man from Berlin, but then I smelled the slight whiff of herbal aftershave as arms encircled me. It was my own Flori. As I relaxed into his embrace, I felt our hips lock together, and we started to dance.

>>Do you remember that night in Köln?<< he breathed in my ear.

>>How could I ever forget?<<

>>I always wondered. If we'd stayed, in that single bed of Holger's, would you have made love to me?<<

Suddenly, I felt a little more understanding towards both Silke and Claudia. >>Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to.<< I told him, turning around in his embrace, and crushing myself against his broad chest. Claudia was right. Short men were no good. Flori was the exact right height for me to lean against as we slow danced.

>>Is that a yes?<<

>>What about you.<<

>>I wanted to, so badly. But I didn't think I stood a chance with you.<< Leaning his face down against the top of my head, he rubbed his nose against my hair.

>>Was it worth it? Ruining your friendship with Ralf, nearly breaking up the band?<<

He didn't answer for some time, long enough that my heart started to thump against his chest, wondering what I would do if he said no. But finally, he sighed. >>Yes. A thousand times yes.<< I relaxed into the music and the disorienting swirl of the flickering light-show, feeling completely at home. It was funny to think, back in September, how disoriented and intimidated I'd felt by the Creamcheese Club, by the crush of people, the strange, foreign music, the crazy artists all around. Now it seemed like home. I greeted the regulars like friends, knew the names of the bartenders, and had been accepted, both on the grounds of my own design work, as well as my relationship with one of the favoured musicians, as _one of those crazy artists_. How much could change, in less than a year!

When the music was over, we all went back to the Schneider-Esleben house, as Claudia swore their parents were in Paris for Easter. That was a story I'd heard before, I thought to myself, but I did not protest as we all bundled into taxis and cars and the back of Holger's van. I was exhausted, just run off my feet from the busy daze of the weeks leading up to the Easter break, so I found myself dropping off to sleep, despite the volume at which the revellers were playing the stereo. Florian had to practically carry me upstairs to bed.

I slept for some time, but when I awoke the party seemed to still be going on downstairs. Flori was not beside me, but then again, he was a night owl. I had not bothered to use the toilet before bed, and of course my bladder was full, so I peeled myself out of Flori's comfortable bed and padded down the hall to the loo. The door, however, was locked. I groaned inwardly, and wondered if I should make the long journey back downstairs. Then again, I figured there would probably be a queue at this time of night, what with the party and all. In fact, it was probably one of the revellers who was more familiar with the house, who had decided to come upstairs to the sleeping quarters - no doubt Klaus or Anni.

But the light went off, and the door clicked open, revealing a tall, thin figure. For a few moments, from the general body shape and height and the carriage of the head, I thought it was Flori. And then I noticed he was undressed, wearing a towel around his waist as if he had been swimming - or showering.

>>Flori, are you having a swim?<< I asked, wondering if I should borrow a swimming costume from Claudia and join them.

The man coughed gently, and I realised it was not Florian as he stepped forward into the dim light of the hall. >>Look, don't get excited<< he said, in a voice that was very soft with tension and nerves. >>It is not what you think.<<

>>What?<< I squinted, wiping sleep from eyes. It was one of the men from Berlin - Hans-Joachim, the tall one that Claudia thought was so handsome.

>>It's not what you think<< he repeated, then padded silently back along the hall, and disappeared... into Claudia's bedroom.

I shook my head, went into the bathroom to relieve myself, then was asleep as soon as I slipped back into Flori's bed.

In the morning, I had almost forgotten the incident, until Hans-Joachim turned up at the breakfast table. That in itself was not particularly unusual, as half of Can, and a couple of members of the support band had all seemed to manage to sleep over in the cavernous living room. But what brought it back to mind was the fact that he turned to me, raised his eyebrows and held his finger up to his lips. For a second I just stared at him, wondering what I was being urged to silence on. Then it came back to me, the midnight meeting - the irony being, without his reminder, I would have forgotten all about it. Claudia appeared, looking radiant as she dished out scrambled eggs onto various portions of toast that needed them. I caught her eye, but she just smiled mysteriously and broke into song, humming a popular tune from before the war.

The pair of them talked all through the next afternoon, and right through the Power Station gig. Whenever I came close to them, it seemed all innocent enough stuff. They were discussing art, comparing the thriving gallery scene in Düsseldorf to the highly restricted venues in Berlin. They discussed the Zodiac Arts Club, which Hans-Joachim had been involved in forming, they discussed the Creamcheese Club, they discussed Beuys and Warhol and Pop Art and Op Art and and Fluxus and the Zero Group that her father had, apparently, briefly been a member of. (Hans-Joachim was most impressed with that fact.) I had never seen Claudia so animated and as she moved with fluency from art to architecture, I found myself wishing once again, that she were my sister. But she was so wrapped up in Hans-Joachim that she barely talked to me for the rest of the holiday weekend!

On Saturday night, they talked so long and so deep that neither of them came up front to dance during Power Station's set, not even during Ruckzuck! When the music slowed a little, I went back to try and worm Claudia out of the conversation, and recover my dancing partner, but Hans-Joachim did not seem keen.

>>It's very conventional, this music<< he said, in a slightly dismissive tone. >>It's so formal, so mannered.<<

I stared at Hans-Joachim, trying to work out his meaning, as I was not entirely familiar with the jargon of musicians, the way I would have known, if one of the Kunstakademie painters called a work of art formal and mannered, that was not intended as a compliment. >>Is that a bad thing?<<

>>They play like a group of Conservatory students<< he sniffed. >>It's a bit pretentious, no?<<

>>They are a group of Conservatory students. Well, Flori is at least. And the band forrmed at an improvisational course given by the Robert Schumann. Surely it would be pretentious for them to pretend not to be?<< I countered.

>>Yes, and they even improvise like Conservatory students. I have no affinity for this music. It does not move me.<<

>>Well, I think it's very good<< I asserted, looking to Claudia for back-up, but she had gone very uncharacteristically quiet. >>I think Flori is a musical genius.<<

At that, Claudia seemed roused to family loyalty. >>Of course you do, Little Mouse. We both do. My brother is very talented.<<

Finding himself outvoted, Hans-Joachim turned to the stage and scowled at the band. >>So<< he finally conceded. >>The guitarist is quite good. I think he plays with genuine sentiment and feeling, but without lapsing into sentimentality. That drummer, though... no, this is not to my taste.<<

Having been primed with a prejudice against the fellow, I was prepared to dislike his music intensely on the Sunday night of Easter itself. We had all been drinking and smoking and partying steadily for several days by that point, and I think we were all perhaps a little tired, and not really in the mood to be blown away. But Moebie and Achim, as we had heard them call one another, seemed to catch the somewhat exhausted mood of the crowd, and commenced a very relaxed, unstructured performance.

The two of them set up immense piles of gear on either side of the stage. But rather than facing towards the audience, as most bands did, or facing towards each other, as Power Station preferred, they faced the wall, with their backs to the audience, as if they did not care whether people watched them or not. And really, as with many of the bands I had been interested in that year, it was as if their machines were the true stars of the performance, the massive piles of electronics and tone generators and reel to reel tape players. 

But Flori's frown deepened, as he spotted that there, amidst the tangle of electronic gear, was an oscilloscope. Because Flori, more as an affectation, because he liked the unearthly green glowing colour, than any actual musical or scientific purpose, liked to play with an oscilloscope perched on top of his piles of electronics. It was probably just coincidence, but still, I could see that it annoyed Flori, who liked to think of himself and his music as utterly unique and one of a kind.

As they started to play, I came to understand what they meant by mannered, or formal. Because Cluster, as it turned out, did not really play songs of any recognisable format. A sound would appear, be caught by Moebie's tape loop, and be stretched out into a strange, almost percussive pattern. They slowly, layer by layer, as if building up overlapping layers of paint, Achim would add tone upon tone, harmonies and fragments of melody, snippets and snatches of sound like a collage that overlayered to form flickering impressions of music, which only coalesced into repeated segments almost by accident.

Although I had not wanted to admit it, as Hans-Joachim had been so rude about Power Station, the effect was both beautiful and beguiling. A louder, more rowdy rock band would have been disastrous at the end of that weekend of sounds, but the exhausted and depleted clientele of the Creamcheese Club were drawn towards this otherworldly melange of tones, sitting or even lying on the floor in front of them, drifting in and out of paying attention as the non-formal music allowed. Flori was captivated, reclining with his head on my lap, watching them very closely, studying their odd bits of equipment quite intently as if wanting to learn how they created their effects. 

Michael, however, was absolutely enchanted, lying back on the floor with his hands behind his head, his eyes closed, an ecstatic smile dusted across his boyish features. >>This, I think...<< he said, his whole face glowing with happiness. >>Is what heaven sounds like. A river of sounds, of celestial harmonies.<<

>>It's crap, is what it is<< snorted Klaus, completely unimpressed. >>Where's the beat? Forget the oscilloscope! This lot couldn't find a good, driving rhythm with a fucking microscope. I'm going outside to find Anni.<<

As he got up to go, Beuys and Emil came over to take his place, sitting down beside us, as Claudia and Silke squished up to allow them space. It worried me, the way that Silke and Emil kept exchanging odd, unreadable glances, but Beuys spoke first. >>So what do you make of all this, Fraulein DeLay?<<

>>Me?<< I stuttered, completely tongue-tied at the attention of our esteemed professor. Despite, or perhaps even because of, the weekly ring-discussions, I was still very much in awe of Beuys, to the point where I was as tongue-tied in front of him as I had once been in front of musicians I admired.

>>Yes, you. Why do you always need me to convince you that I do actually wish to hear your thoughts and opinions?<< His voice was light, teasing.

I blushed profusely and wished I could hide behind Flori, but he was too absorbed in the music. >>I just have trouble imagining why you would be interested in my opinion.<<

>>Perhaps I am interested because I have to expend such effort to pull them out of you. You never come to the rap sessions after our lectures, and yet you turn in the most intriguing papers. Your German is rudimentary, yes, but you are the only one of my students that throws around terms like 'algorithmic morphogenesis' with absolutely nonchalant ease. I could not even find it in a dictionary; I had to ring a more technical friend of mine in New York to find out what it means. And it took Nam-June 20 minutes to explain it to me! Now. This looping music that Dieter makes... what do you think. Is it, perhaps, the audio equivalent of your morphogenesis?<<

I could not work out if he was teasing me or serious, but as I thought about it carefully, I realised that everyone was staring at me with those expectant and slightly amused expressions that meant it was time for me to speak. I was still not a big fan of speaking, especially not in front of Beuys. >>Well, in algorithmic morphogenesis, apparently random patterns build, one upon another, creating order out of chaos. Yet the methods these musicians are utilising, the poor reproductive sound quality of the magnetic tape loops, means that the process is a destructive one. They start with order, and descend into chaos.<<

Emil looked like he was about to laugh, but Beuys took on a contemplative expression, as if he were considering what I had said. >>But does it not speak volumes of the capability of the human ear, that we are still able to discern order within the seemingly chaotic patterns. A loop of random sounds, repeated regularly, attains a meditative quality, related to the trance state.<<

>>Well<< I said carefully, trying to select words that would not make me look too stupid in front of our professor. >>This looping tape recorder seems like machine consciousness, rather than a human trance state.<<

>>Machine consciousness<< echoed Flori curiously, moving his head to rest it against my knees. It was one of our longest-running discussions; whether machines would ever actually _think_.  >>Hmmmm.<<

>>I still think I prefer Power Station<< I said quickly. >>There is something more interesting about a fallible human being trying to emulate the perfection of a machine, than a failing machine trying to emulate the foibles of human fallibility.<<

Flori laughed and gave my knees a quick squeeze. >>She is very loyal to me, this one, my Little Mouse.<<

Emil's eyes flashed darkly. >>No woman is loyal. Don't be fooled.<<

But Beuys gazed at me with those deep blue eyes that seemed to stare straight through me. >>Little mouse. I like this epithet.<<

>>It's just a pet name<< I said defensively.

>>Perhaps the mouse is your totem animal<< Beuys suggested. 

>>More like a witch's familiar<< laughed Emil. >>This is how she bewitched our Flori.<<

But Beuys ignored his mockery. >>A powerful animal, for one so small. Did you know Apollo, the Greek God of music, was also Apollo Smintheus, the God of Mice? So do not underestimate mice.<<

For a moment, there was silence between all of us, but then Claudia interrupted. >>Well, I like them. I think they're brilliant, Professor Beuys. Can you arrange to find out if they would like to play a gig at the Student Union in Aachen?<<

>>What a brilliant idea. Why don't _you_ suggest it to them, dear Claudia? << said Beuys, with a playful smirk, as if realising astutely which way the wind was blowing.

>>I just might<< said Claudia and rolled back over to watch them again, nudging Silke gently, who smiled mysteriously and rolled her beautiful eyes.

>>As I said<< Emil retorted sarcastically. >>No woman is ever loyal, really.<<

Beuys lay back, resting his head on one of the pillows on the floor of his club. >>Myself, I am just proud that our little tiny corner of the Rhineland supports such a vibrant and diverse cultural scene that we are able to sustain rivalries and friendly competition between musical groups. I think it's good for our local artists to be challenged and inspired to greater heights. Your own father was not able to achieve his own personal voice and full brilliance until he rebelled against Mies van der Rohe. So maybe Cluster and Power Station and Can will all rebel against one another in interesting ways. Don't you agree, Schneider-Esleben Junior?<<

But Flori would not be drawn. >>I am with my sister on this. I, too, just think they are very good.<<


	32. Aachen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jan accompanies Evamaria to Aachen, in a last-ditch attempt to talk Claudia out of doing something very foolish over Hans-Joachim, she runs into a familiar face she'd rather have forgotten.
> 
> And Florian's family are now pressuring him and Jan to take a step that neither of them may be ready for just yet.

Claudia had not been back in Aachen for a week, when the telephone started ringing in Flori's father's office. Normally Flori didn't bother answering our extension, as usually it would only be one of his father's business associates. They would just hang up if there was no answer, and try the Hochschule where he taught in Hamburg. But whoever was on the line was just ringing and ringing, eight, nine, ten rings, until finally Flori got up and stalked across to answer it.

When he returned, he sighed deeply, collecting his coat, his shoes. >>Come on, put your shoes on. We have to go to my parents' house.<<

>>Why, what is it?<< I grumbled, pulling on my boots. I couldn't find my own jacket, so I put his sheepskin lined coat on again. >>What have you done now.<<

>>For once, it's not me. It's my sister.<<

We walked in to find Paul, Evamaria and Tina gathered in the living room, though Evamaria shooed Tina off when we arrived. >>Look, I'm going to find out sooner or later<< she huffed, even as her father ruffled her hair and pushed her out the door, closing it behind her.

>>What could Claudia possibly have done?<< Flori protested. >>She's always been the good Schneider-Esleben, unlike me.<<

>>We've had a letter from Claudia this morning. Have you?<< demanded Evamaria.

>>I get a letter from her every week.<< Flori shrugged.

>>Did she mention her engagement?<< his mother demanded, with steely eyes.

>>Erm.<< Florian rolled his eyes skywards, as if he were thinking very hard. >>No. She was mostly telling me about the lectures on Mies Van Der Rohe that she has attended at school.<<

Paul bristled slightly, then interrupted. >>She has broken her engagement with this fellow of hers. We were wondering if you knew the reason why, which she has not chosen to share it with us.<<

>>Balls<< I said aloud, then put my hand to my mouth, as Evamaria turned to stare at me. >>Pardon my French!<<

>>Your French is atrocious. Your German, however, is coming along nicely, if you know that word<< observed Evamaria with an ironic smile. >>What do you know, Little Mouse?<<

>>I don't know anything<< I protested, thinking of Hans-Joachim's retreating back in the hall.

>>She didn't say why?<< stuttered Flori. I wondered if he had even noticed the flirtation going on under his nose all weekend.

>>Not a word<< grumbled Paul. >>Just out of the blue, no, that's it, it's all off.<<

>>Well, I bet you're relieved<< sniped Flori, with a sideways glare at his father. >>You never liked him. You certainly never wanted them to marry.<<

>>I thought he was a capital fellow - a very fine young man, and a promising architect. I just wanted them to finish University before they got married, because if he passed the Exam, I wanted him for a Junior Partner in PSE Architecture<< Paul sputtered. For a moment, Flori looked surprised, like he'd actually misjudged his own father. >>But if she won't marry the fellow, I lose the Junior Partner I've been training up.<<

>>Is that all you care about<< hissed Flori.

>>No<< said Evamaria quite calmly. >>There's the matter of the matter of the announcement we already made in the society pages of the paper.<<

>>Not to mention the dress we've already paid for. I don't suppose we can get the money back on that.<< Paul eyed me greedily.

>>Don't be mercenary, Paul<< snapped Evamaria. >>We are patrons, investing in the future of young artists and designers.<<

As the two of them fell to squabbling, Flori and I exchanged guilty glances. "Do you know something?" he mouthed quietly at me, in English.

"I... I don't know, but I suspect..." I sighed, hoping his mother's English was worse than my French.

>>Clearly, we need to drive to Aachen and speak to our daughter<< insisted Paul. >>Then we will get to the bottom of this.<<

>>Look, no, Paul, you are the last person that she will speak to about this. There are some things a girl will not share with her father, and some things a girl needs her mother for. I will drive over and talk to her... but I need one of the young people to come with me.<< Evamaria announced, and turned towards us expectantly.

>>If she won't talk to our father, do you really think she's likely to talk to me?<< Florian stuttered, looking suddenly very awkward, though probably more on his mother's account, as I knew that he and Claudia did write on personal matters. Just clearly not on this one.

>>Little Mouse?<< said Evamaria, turning to me, as I blushed. >>I think you know more than you are saying. I did notice, you and Claudia have become very close over Christmas. I'm sure she will confide in you. You will come to Aachen with me tonight.<<

>>Tonight?<< I stuttered.

>>Don't worry, it's not far. We can be there and back by midnight. You will come.<< Her voice made it absolutely clear that I had no choice in the matter, as she rose, and collected her handbag, an elegant hat, a coat.

And so I found myself bundled into the Schneider-Esleben's large family Mercedes and swept off into the spring evening. Although Evamaria was not quite as alarming a driver as her son, she still drove much faster than I was comfortable with.

>>So<< she said, lighting a cigarette. None of us had ever dared to smoke in the car, but she rolled down the window and wafted the smoke away. >>I am glad this at least gives us a chance to get to know one another a little better.<<

>>Oh.<< I gulped; I hoped not audibly.

>>You are very quiet, Little Mouse. But I think that suits our son. He is also very quiet, by nature.<<

I suppressed a giggle. I had no idea why people kept insisting that Flori was so shy or so reserved, as I had never found him that way. You just had to know what subjects he found interesting to talk about, to get him to talk.

>>What makes you laugh?<< Evamaria took her eyes from the road and gazed at me. It was unnerving how much her pale eyes resembled Florian's.

>>He has never been quiet with me.<<

>>I suppose you two speak the international language of love<< she sighed.

I laughed aloud that time. >>No, we speak the international language of geeks. Mathematics.<<

It was Evamaria's turn to laugh. >>You are very funny, Little Mouse. That same dry wit as my son, packing a sting in its tail. I think you are well suited. You will marry, yes, at the end of term, rather than go back to England?<<

>> _What_? << I sputtered, before recovering myself. I supposed marriage must have just been on her mind, since one of her children was planning on escaping its bonds that night. >>We have not even discussed it.<<

>>But I think you will, soon. It is unavoidable, given your nationality. I don't think you will go back to England; I think you will stay to be with our Flori, as he is certainly not going to move to England. So you will have to marry. It is fine; we are expecting this. But of course, you must know that we will insist on a _Voreheliche_. <<

>>A what?<< I stumbled over the unfamiliar German term.

>>Look, it's nothing personal. We insisted the same terms with Claudia's fiancé. It's just an agreement that, in the event of a divorce without issue, you are not entitled to any of the Schneider-Esleben estate.<<

>>A Pre-nuptial<< I said, and nearly had to stuff my fist in my mouth as I looked at the window at the suburbs flying by. Of course I had never told Florian who my mother's family were; he would not have been impressed by them the way he was impressed by the DeLay name and reputation. I wondered if the word Koffiefontein would mean anything at all to him, though it might to his mother. >>I was never interested in Flori for his money. I love him because we are, as you say, well suited for one another.<<

>>That's easy to say when you are 19 and have the whole world in front of you. It is harder to say, when you are nearing 50, and have 3 children and a failing marriage<< she said very quietly.

I wondered what she meant by that, and if I were a different person, a better person, maybe I would have pushed her on it, been kind, got her to open up to me in the same way that Claudia did. But I was, to be honest, more than a little bit afraid of Evamaria. So I said nothing, hoping that she would say no more on the subject. But when the silence grew too much to bear in the car, I said something stupid like >>I am happy to sign anything that you like. I trust in love, not money.<<

>>Well, you're a damn fool, Little Mouse, but I'm glad to hear it, for Flori's sake. I just hope one of you develops a head for money eventually, though I doubt it will be my son. These Schneider-Esleben men, they are, ultimately, _so_ unbelievably selfish. But if you persist on this course, you will learn this the hard way. <<

>>Flori is one of the most generous men I have ever known<< I mumbled, looking down at my feet.

>>The generosity comes at a cost, Little Mouse. The cost is compliance. You seem so meek, but I can see, you are far more ambitious than I ever was. Will you be able to pay that cost, that is the question.<<

Hunching my shoulders, I just wished she would shut up, as she was making me very uncomfortable, but I did not have the words to ask her to stop. >>Flori supports my ambitions<< I told her. >>He is a modern man, he is not threatened by my accomplishments.<<

Evamaria laughed aloud, an ugly harsh tone. >>Accomplishments are good, only so long as they function as ornaments. But don't listen to me. You're as stubborn as I was, too. You will learn.<<

We arrived in Aachen in just over an hour. It barely looked like Germany any more, with its fanciful towers and ornate Roman Catholic cathedral. Evamaria told me that we were almost within sight of the Belgian border, which was only a mile or two outside the town. Had it been a bit brighter, I might have asked if we could just drive through to the Netherlands, and visit the country of my mother's ancestors, but Evamaria drove straight through to the student quarter in the Northwest, searching for Claudia's flat with determination.

She parked in a side-street, and walked briskly off, down a wide avenue of tall, pastel painted high-gabled buildings, lined with cafes that reminded me far more of Amsterdam than a reserved German city. But Evamaria gave me no time for tourist gawking, locating the building efficiently, leaving me to have to trot to keep up.

We rang the doorbell, but there was no reply. So Evamaria just sighed and dug in her stylish handbag, pulling out several sets of keys. She tried one or two until she found one that fit the lock, and pushed the door open.

>>You have the keys to Claudia's apartment?<< I asked, gobsmacked.

>>I don't see why not. We pay for it, after all.<< Her eyes lit up wickedly as she held the door open for me. >>I have a set of keys for that penthouse up on Tersteegenstrasse that Paul doesn't think I know about, too, in case you are curious. But no, I do not begrudge you and Flori your love-nest.<<

I followed her up the narrow stairs in silence, not sure what to say, and convinced that there was probably nothing I could tell her that she didn't already know. When we reached the second floor, she unlocked another door, and pushed her way into the apartment. She found the lights and flicked them on, rummaging around in the studenty debris of the living room table as I looked about. On the whole, despite the takeaway cartons and the piles of textbooks that signified student living, the expansive space with tall, elegant windows and high ceilings with ornate old-fashioned plaster-work was much closer to Ralf's description of a luxury flat than Claudia's dismissal as a student dump, though the smell left a bit to be desired.

>>Well<< sighed Evamaria, having ascertained that all of the scribbled notebooks on the table were purely academic in content. >>No clues here. And no Claudia. I suppose she must still be at school. It's not far away at all. One of us should go and check, and one of us should stay here, in case she comes back. Can you drive?<<

I shook my head. >>Not on this side of the road.<< I didn't tell Evamaria that I could only fly, as roads didn't really exist in the place where I had grown up.

>>Well, you stay here, then. I'll be back in half an hour if I find her. If not... well, just keep looking. I'd tell you to answer the phone, but I don't think she has one.<< With a jaunty wave, she was gone, leaving me to sit uneasily on the sofa, wondering how on earth I was going to explain to Claudia what I was doing here.

I picked up a textbook and started to read about suspension bridge cables, remembering the dress I'd worn at Silke's show, but it was written in such a dry tone it didn't really hold my interest. Thinking I'd make life a little easier for my sort-of or maybe even soon-to-be sister, I started to pick up the empty takeaway boxes and pack them into a plastic bag, hoping that would combat the distinctly sour smell in the place. As I wandered into the kitchen, only to be greeted with an overflowing rubbish bin, I heard the key in the door.

>>Claudia, is that you?<< I called out, nudging the rubbish pile with my foot, wondering if this is what Flori's and my flat would look like if a maid didn't come twice a week. >>Where do you keep your rubbish bags?<<

>>Under the sink<< called back a voice, male, German, all too terribly familiar. Digging under the sink to find a bag, I tried to push the takeaway containers into it before tackling the bin overflow. I wondered if I could wash my hands, but the sink was piled as high with dirty dishes as the Berger Allee flat had been during Ralf's occupation, so I found a pair of rubber gloves before tackling the bin. I was too focused on the rubbish pile, to notice that the person who walked through into the kitchen was not Claudia at all. And he, in fact, was even more surprised than I was. >>Chan?<<

I shot to my feet. >>Ralf?<< Had it really been four months since I had last seen him? All those ghosts of Ralf, the missing figure in the computer lab, the haunting presence in my mind when Flori played Fun House, and now here was the flesh and blood human being. For a long minute, we stared at each other in shocked silence. His hair was slightly longer than the last time I had seen him, and had flattened out once it reached his shoulders. And his face was chubbier again, his cheeks filled out with a layer of kummerspeck that obscured his severe jawline.

But he slowly got control over his face, and changed his expression to a haughty expression of blank boredom. >>What are you doing here?<<

>>Claudia has thrown over her engagement. Evamaria is on the warpath, and brought me along, thinking someone from the younger generation could persuade her not to leave her fiancé.<< I paused, swallowing hard, and put down the bag full of rubbish before removing the rubber gloves. I had been cleaning the mess for Claudia's sake, but once I realised it was Ralf's, I decided I'd rather let him stew in it than ever let him see me being domestic. >>I am sorry, I had no idea you were still staying here. I would never have come, if I knew you were... I'm sorry.<<

Ralf shrugged, a little too exaggerated to truly be light. >>I'm not bothered to see you. What do I care; I was just surprised, is all. And Claudia's affairs are no concern of mine. I suppose you're one of th...<< His voice trailed off, as I wondered what he was going to say. _One of the Schneider-Esleben clan now_?  >>I have a new girlfriend now, you know. She's Belgian. She's very pretty. Long, blonde hair, big blue eyes, that sort of thing.<<

I don't know why I blushed. Maybe it was Claudia's voice echoing in my head, reminding me that all of Ralf's girlfriends looked exactly like him. >>I'm very glad to hear that<< I said, and with great relief, I found I meant it. >>I hope she's nice.<<

Ralf continued to stare at me. A question danced in the air between us, but it was like a game of chicken to see which of us would say it first. I could see Ralf's jaw quivering, but finally he broke first. >>Flori...<< he stuttered. >>How is Flori?<<

I could not stop the smile from engulfing my face. >>Flori is good. Flori is doing very well. He is writing music like a maniac. He's been teaching himself to play the electric violin - rather well, I must admit, though it was somewhat noisy at first. He sleeps all day, and makes music all night. He is... we are... very happy.<<

>>You are still in love?<< There was a slight catch to his voice, like I didn't know which way he was hoping I answered.

>>We are more in love now than I think we were four months ago<< I answered truthfully, wishing I wasn't blushing quite so hard.

Ralf's mouth smiled as his eyes looked rather sad, sorrow and joy and hope and pain all wrapped up in one terrible expression. >>I suppose I am glad for that. With some distance on events... I... I...<< I waited at least a minute for him to finish the sentence, but after some time he closed his mouth and just shrugged helplessly.

I nodded my head very slowly. >>I think it worked out for the best... for all of us, yes?<<

Again, that completely mixed expression. >>I am happy in Aachen. I enjoy my studies, though they are very challenging. The course is much harder than the Engineering School in Düsseldorf. I just wish... I...<< And here his voice trailed off again, though this time, I knew - or at least I hoped - what he wanted to say. Was he now regretting those awful things he had said to Flori in that terrible letter?

>>We read your interview<< I blurted out without entirely meaning to. 

>>Oh.<< He looked slightly embarrassed. >>I saw that Power Station weren't getting any press in Köln, and I have a friend there, so I wanted to help. You know, to show that I still supported the music of Power Station, even though... well... you know.<< I had forgotten exactly how inarticulate Ralf could be when pressed on his emotions.

>>But why did you say that you are still in contact with Flori, when you know very well that you are not?<<

Ralf's face crumpled into pain. >>What did you want me to say? They asked me, deliberately, was it personal, did I not speak to Flori? If I had answered in the positive, they would have hounded me, would have probed for gossip and personal scandal. I did us both a favour by lying.<<

For a long moment, we glared at one another. And in that awful moment, with Ralf pouting his lips, his face tensing, I suddenly saw it, what Claudia had noticed. We did look a bit alike; or rather, he looked like those terrible glaring black and white photos of me that Helmut had published in the local Düsseldorf papers to promote our new line of clothes. Al he needed was a dab of mascara and some red lipstick.

And then, abruptly, before either of us could speak, I heard muffled female voices, raised, angry, shouting at one another out in the hall, and then the key in the lock. >>Jan? Jan, sweetie, I didn't tell my mother, so she hasn't been able to warn you, but you know who has been staying with me...<< As Claudia walked into the kitchen, she saw the pair of us, faced off over the overspilling rubbish. >>Oh. Shit. Well, I guess you know. Ralf is here.<<

>>I should...<< stuttered Ralf, looking back and forth between us. >>Well, if you've got company, I should... I'll go and stay at Marijka's tonight, alright?<< Then he looked at me one last time, turned around on his chelsea-booted heels, and fled.

Claudia sighed and took the rubbish bag from me, clearing up the mess. >>I'm sorry. I would have warned you he was here if I had had the slightest... _warning_... that you were coming...? << This, with a furious look backwards towards her mother.

>>Darling, you can't expect to send a letter like that, and not have some response. Your father and I are very worried...<<

>>I would have expected my father and you would be vastly relieved<< Claudia tossed back.

>>Not really, no<< sighed Evamaria, settling into the sofa in the living room. >>Your father had got it into his head that your fellow could be recruited into the family business, and now he is angry because he's been denied a new servant. You know your father. But tell me what has happened. Have you had a quarrel? Has there been an argument?<<

>>No<< shrugged Claudia, with a meaningful look at me. >>If anything, we have stopped arguing.<<

>>Have you just fallen out of love? You know that first, intense, sexual love of the first few years, it really doesn't last<< sighed Evamaria.

>>No, it's not that. It's just that I don't want to be married to him.<< Claudia tied up both bin bags and moved them closer to the door.

>>There's not someone else, is there?<< demanded Evamaria. >>You haven't taken up with that dreadful Hütter boy, have you?<<

>>God no<< shot back Claudia with an alacrity that was almost funny.

But still, I noticed that her face was slightly red, in the same way that Flori got all heated up when I nudged too close to an argument he didn't want to have. Stepping further into the kitchen, out of Evamaria's sight, I caught Claudia's eye, and mouthed the words >>Hans-Joachim?<<

Her face went bright red. >>It's not what you think<< she protested.

>>That's what he said<< I told her, very quietly, too quietly, I hoped, for her mother to hear. >>As I caught him walking naked into your bedroom.<<

>>We had been swimming<< she insisted.

>>In April?<<

>>The pool is heated, dummy.<< She rolled her eyes. >>I haven't fucked him, OK? It's not like that! I just... Look, I have never felt such an affinity for a man before. I speak to him, and it's like... I realise all of the things that are missing when I speak to my fiancé. i haven't touched Hans-Joachim, I swear! He's 35, and so sophisticated, what would he want with a kid like me? But he just told me... showed me so much. He's done so many things, lived so many lives, experienced and seen so much. Things I want to do, and experience. And things I know, I will never have the chance to experience if I marry an architect straight out of school and go on to pop out three babies by the age of 25.<<

>>My child, I wish someone had told me that, at 20.<< We both turned, to see Evamaria standing in the door, lighting up a cigarette. >>It is as I feared. I would be a terrible mother if I allowed this marriage to go forward. The engagement must be broken. I will manage your father.<<

Claudia let out a small cry of mingled anguish and relief and threw her arms around her mother's neck. >>Thank you for understanding.<< But then she seemed to crumple, losing all of the strength she had been projecting so fiercely. >>But my fian... ex-fiance does not want to hear. He thinks I'm just having cold feet, that I'll get over it if he's persistent enough in his attentions, if he's nice to me - I can't bear it when he's nice to me! I think I would like it better if he hated me. I just want him to go away and leave me alone.<<

Evamaria made a sort of vaguely maternal noise as she patted her daughter on the back. >>No... it is you that must leave the situation, since you have thrown him over. Pack your things, my dear, I'm taking you home. You must get in the car and come back to Düsseldorf with us.<<

>>But the exam<< protested Claudia, her eyes wild. >>I will still have to take it, engagement or not. Christ, I have been so wound up by all of this, I have completely neglected my studies. I have so much reading to catch up on, but I just can't concentrate with all of this in my head.<<

>>Don't worry about that. A broken engagement is a big deal. Your father will speak to the Dean of the Architecture School. You can retake the course next semester, and sit the exam the following year.<<

Claudia started to move back through the living room towards what I presumed was her bedroom, but then she stopped, scowling at a very familiar suitcase tucked into a corner of the living room. >>Shit. What about Ralf? I should leave him a note. I... what about the rent? You've paid it up to the end of the term, right?<<

I felt a pang for Claudia, that in the midst of all this, she actually cared about him, but Evamaria rolled her eyes. >>Am I be stuck with this Hütter boy for the rest of time? Why must we always end up providing him with a roof, has he no family of his own? You and Flori, both of you, always taking in strays...<<

Even though I knew that the barb had not been directed at me, I still winced. Perching on a corner of the sofa, I stayed very quiet until Claudia had finished packing.

>>I've brought a few changes of clothes. We can come back for the rest, yes?<< As her mother nodded, she sat down and scrawled a note for Ralf. I did my best not to read it.

But she needn't have bothered. Together we climbed down the stairs, but as she locked up, I looked about, and saw a familiar face, and a familiar hand waving at us trying to get our attention. >>Chan!<< Across the street, Ralf was sitting at one of the cafe's outdoor table, nursing a slice of cake and a coffee as he pretended to read a book. >>Can I talk to you for a minute?<<

>>I... erm... Can't really chat. We're going back to Düsseldorf tonight<< I stuttered, looking back over my shoulder at Claudia and Evamaria. >>Claudia's going to come and stay at home for a bit, so... I guess you have the flat to yourself... But... I thought you were going to your girlfriend's place?<< For a moment, I was gripped with a horrible fear that he'd made the whole thing up.

>>She's still in class<< he said defensively.

>>Of course she is. God, those engineering students work even harder than we do<< sighed Claudia. >>Are you going to be alright in the flat by yourself? You and Marijka can sleep in the bedroom while I'm gone, but for gods sake, change the sheets occasionally, alright?<<

>>Of course. But...<< Tension flickered across his face. >>Do you mind if I have a moment alone with Chan?<<

Claudia rolled her eyes and walked off, though her mother watched us suspiciously. >>Five minutes, OK? I want to get back to Düsseldorf before midnight.<< she declared, tapping her watch as the pair of them dragged Claudia's suitcase back towards the car.

>>What is it?<< I asked, clutching Flori's jacket closer around me, though it was not cold. >>What is so important that you were waiting out here to tell me?<<

>>i was not waiting for you<< Ralf insisted defensively. >>This is the main strip between the University...<< He pointed down towards a large grey building, then up towards a huddled group of low-lying buildings that looked like dormitories. >>...and the student district. I often wait here until Marijka gets out of class.<<

I let my defences drop, but only slightly. >>Well, what is it? I have to go soon.<<

>>Are you going to tell Flori that you saw me?<< Ralf blurted out, without preamble.

>>Well, it would have seemed reasonable, unless it is a big secret that you are staying with his sister.<< I paused, as his face fell. >>Why? Do you want me to tell him?<<

>>I think I would rather you didn't.<<

I said nothing, but silently reflected on the fact that I had often thought Ralf Hütter might be a coward. It must have shown in my eyes, because Ralf's face crinkled up in distress.

>>I think if you tell him, it will hurt him. And I... well, I believe I have hurt Flori quite enough lately.<<

>>Oh?<< I raised my eyebrow, but said nothing, waiting for him to offer more.

>>The letter<< explained Ralf, practically crumpling in upon himself as he writhed with discomfort.

>>Yes<< I said, in a tone I hoped made him aware I had read it.

>>Look, Chan, I was very distressed when I wrote it. I said things that I now realise were probably very cruel.<<

I nodded, remembering how angry I had been when I read it, seeing Flori's expression of pain. >>Yes. If you intended to hurt Flori, well, you succeeded.<<

>>God, does he really hate me now? I wanted him to hate you as much as I did, at that moment. I wish I knew how to apologise.<< It was the first time I had ever heard anything even approaching an apology coming from those arrogant little lips, but his eyes were hopeful.

>>It's not me you should be apologising to<< I shrugged.

His face fell. >>No. I think you should not tell him you saw me.<<

>>Suit yourself<< I said, and turned to go.

>>Chan!<< he called after me.

>>No<< I said, without turning around. >>I'm not doing it. I'm not being your go-between, with Flori.<<

I tried not to think about Ralf, on the car journey home. It should have been easy enough, as Claudia was clearly upset, and spent most of the car ride talking about her now ex-fiance. I did my best to listen, trying to think of the things I would have wanted to hear if I had just broken up with someone. But the only person I had ever broken up with was Ralf, and my thoughts kept circling back to him. Should I honour Ralf's wishes and not tell Flori I had seen him? That would be the easy option - or would it? If Flori asked, I would not be able to lie to him. But what would I say, if I did go ahead and tell him? I didn't want to be the one to tell him that Ralf wanted to apologise for the letter. It wasn't my place. Or was that just my pride speaking?

The apartment was dark when I got in, and at first I thought Flori was out at the rehearsal studio. But as I made my way back to the bedroom alcove, I saw that it was occupied. He was lying in bed, reading by the light of a single bulb.

I smiled, and slipped off his jacket, followed by my clothes. >>Are you very engrossed in that book, or are you in the mood to be seduced?<<

He grinned at me over the top of the cover. >>It is a very interesting book indeed. But then again, you without any clothes on might be slightly more interesting...<< For a few minutes, he pretended to be caught up in the paperback as I slipped into the bed beside him, and started to move against him, kissing his chest. But then he laughed, threw the book across the room and caught me up in his arms, tossing me to the mattress. I surprised myself with the force of my need as I sucked his tongue into my mouth and wrapped my legs around him. We coupled urgently, maybe even frantically, all wrapped up in a sweaty heap of frustration, but he had learned exactly how to bring me release with the precision of a scientist. I lay back, panting, as he brought me to orgasm, then folded me underneath him, thrusting into me forcibly until I saw that face that meant he, too, had come.

>>So<< he said, as we lay back together, gently combing the sweaty hair out of each others' faces. >>My father wants to know if I will be marrying you, once your student visa expires.<<

I laughed aloud. >>I have had exactly the same conversation with your mother. It's as if... denied one wedding, they've decided to hold us to account for providing another.<<

But he sat up, resting on one arm, studying me carefully as he ran his finger down the gentle slope between my breasts. His face was suddenly very serious. >>Do you want to marry me?<<

>>Oh, Flori<< I sighed. >>I don't _want_ to marry anyone. << Something of relief tinged with sadness fell across his eyes. >>If I had to marry anyone, it would be you. But... can't I get a work visa or something? Through Silke, through the designing, through something...?<<

>>There are too many designers in Düsseldorf already.<< Flori laughed, his face lightening. >>I think you are stuck with me.<<

>>Do _you_ want to marry me? << I felt a weird tightening in my stomach that I couldn't really explain, somewhere between butterflies and abject panic.

His face grew serious again. >>I want you to stay in Germany, with me. That I do want, and however it is we accomplish that, that is what I will do.<<

I turned over on my side, burying my face against his chest, that reassuring smell of his herbal scent mingled with his masculine musk. >>I wish there were a way to just get married, just to get the visa, but without all of the expectations and ritual and rigamarole pre-nuptual agreements and shit-of-cow that goes with it.<<

>>Not shit-of-cow; bullshit<< laughed Flori, cradling my head in his hand and stroking my hair. >>I take it my mother was pestering you about the pre-nups. Because, you know, if you want, we can do it without all of that _bullshit_. <<

>>I wish we could just do it secretly, and, you know... not tell anyone. Just get the piece of paper and not tell anyone.<<

>>Well, why not? Why can't we do just that?<<

I shook my head, rubbing my cheek back and forth over the soft strip of downy hair down the centre of his chest. >>Well, I'm underage for a start. Not yet 21, so you have to ask my father.<<

>>Do you think he would be amenable?<<

I thought about that for a moment, trying to imagine Flori and my father meeting, drinking tea, and suddenly flying out into some fanciful discussion of voice synthesis techniques, both of them going very red in the face in that characteristic way both of them did, when they were very excited. >>He would love you if he met you.<<

Florian smiled kind of sheepishly, half proud, half nervous. >>Well, I just wanted you to know, it was an option. If you want a marriage, just to stay in the country, I am amenable.<<


	33. Beat Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florian and Jan throw a party to celebrate Power Station's [appearance on Beat Club](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O8Y_-ZLGW1o), Germany's equivalent of Top of the Pops.
> 
> But the peace is shattered when the family of Klaus's girlfriend take matters into their own hands, to separate their daughter from the wild drummer.

The month of May was so busy I barely got a moment to myself. It had got to the point where Flori had to grab me, and hold me, and force me to sit outside on the balcony for 20 minutes with a cup of tea, just to stop me from rushing about like a mad thing. School and work and programming just seemed to have blurred into an endless merry-go-round of days passing into nights where I was too exhausted to do more than collapse into bed, not even properly waking up when Flori came home from the studio or a gig.

But Florian told me that he had planned a big party, up at the flat, for Saturday the 22nd, and insisted that I make time for it. He either didn't tell me what it was for, or I was in too mad a rush to mark what the occasion was, but he didn't just tell me, he had also left a note _inside_ the fridge, where I would see it in the morning, and had left an invitation at the Atelier, too, just to cover all the bases. Realising how late I had left the plans, I fussed over making sure we had enough drinks, and enough food, and wondered where on earth people were going to sit. I just hoped that it was warm, and not raining, so that people could spill out onto the balcony, which really came into its own in the summer, like a floating garden, way up in the sky. I hung up strings of coloured lights as decorations, hid the valuables in Paul's office and locked it, then lit coils of incense to set the mood.

Florian, however, dragged the television out from the bedroom into the middle of the living room. >>I hope people arrive on time<< he fussed. >>I don't want to be leaping up from watching us to answer the door.<<

>>From watching what?<<

Flori stopped dead and looked at me with pure amazement. >>You've really forgotten? Power Station are on Beat Club tonight.<<

I stared at him as if I'd seen a ghost. Beat Club was the Saturday night equivalent of Top of the Pops and Ready Steady Go all rolled into one. I knew he had told me they were going to be on television, weeks ago, and yet I had indeed been so wrapped up in school and work and everything that I had completely forgotten. >>Oh my god. It had actually completely slipped my mind. That is tonight?<<

But luckily, Florian just laughed and bent over to kiss my forehead. Clearly, he was in such a good mood that nothing was going to eclipse his childish joy in the occasion. >>Oh, my silly little mouse. This is what the party is for!<<

Michael and Myrthe arrived first, as Myrthe had said she would help prepare the food. Florian and Michael were both tense with restless energy, very hyped up and excited about the television program, so Myrthe put on a Velvets record to calm them down, then we shooed them out to smoke a joint on the balcony while we fussed with the appetisers. Claudia arrived next, and Hans-Joachim was with her, though she told us that Klaus and Anni were going to make their own way over in their own time. Florian introduced Michael and Hans-Joachim, and the pair of them seemed to look one another up and down in that suspicious way that musicians always seemed to approach one another, like cats unsure of whether they were dealing with friend or enemy, all arched backs and disdainful sniffs. I remembered that Michael had been very complimentary about Cluster's performance at the Creamcheese Club, but Hans-Joachim seemed less than effusive about Power Station in return.

Emil arrived, all bubbly and full of joy, with an attractive young woman in tow. I looked at her carefully, trying to work out where I had seen her before, then realised it was the girl who worked at the record shop downtown, who had caused such a commotion in Beuys' lecture hall! Emil, though, kissed me affectionately on the cheek, and handed me two litres of cheap vodka. He flipped the Velvets record over, then he turned the stereo up loud and the lights down low, and that was it, Emil had arrived, and the party had started properly. I buzzed in more people on the intercom, Eberhard and his jazz drummer friend, who passed round more joints. The music shop worker - Heidi was her name - buttonholed each of the musicians in turn, pressing them on their next recording sessions, so that she could have first scoop on when the newest records would be coming out.

Another buzz, and Silke's voice was on the intercom. For a moment, I worried that there might be trouble with Emil, but she arrived with Greta and that man whose mother owned the Kö Boutique. She glared disapprovingly at Heidi, but fortunately said nothing. This new boyfriend, Johannes, I found myself almost liking, despite myself. Although he was quite a bit older than us, he was still quite handsome, and he came across as witty and urbane and sophisticated, quite a nice contrast with Helmut's sour condescension. He certainly won Flori's approval by turning up with a couple of bottles of good quality liqueur, and mixing cocktails for us all. But me, I rather liked him because he did not leer at the girls, or paw Silke, maintaining a friendly but professional demeanour with us all.

And then, finally, as Flori turned the record off, and wired the television's sound to go through the hi-fi just in time to hear the Beat Club announcer's voice announce The Byrds, the doorbell rang again, and Klaus and Anni graced us with their presence.

I had never seen our living room so crowded, as all of us gathered together round the television, laughing and whispering through The Byrds performing some country and western song about a horse, as we waited for Power Station to appear.

But then, we held our breaths as the voiceover announced Power Station, playing a song called Backseat Boat-driver. >>OK, OK<< announced Flori, turning the volume up. >>Everybody be quiet, we're on!<<

>>Then move your bloody great head, if you please, V-2, you're not made out of glass<< roared Klaus behind him. Flori crumpled to the floor, folding his long legs up to sit cross-legged right in front of the screen.

I just about finished passing out the last of the drinks, then slipped onto the sofa next to Myrthe. Anni tip-toed over and sat on the arm of the sofa for a better view, snaking her arm around my shoulders to keep her balance.

And in front of us, in front of our real boyfriends, video representations of our three boyfriends appeared on the screen, spliced together with strange psychedelic patterns in blue and purple. They sat in the same arrangement as they sat onstage, with Klaus in the centre, with Michael on the left and Flori to the right, facing each other in a loose triangle, guarded by the orange traffic cone. 

>>I never understood what the traffic cone was for<< whispered Heidi. >>You always have it, but is it just part of the stage set-up, or does it actually have a use?<<

Flori grinned widely, turning around to catch my eye from under his long, pale eyelashes. >>You see, back in the old days, when we used to play mostly at galleries and such places, our gear was so strange it was hard to tell where the equipment ended and the artwork began. So we used the traffic cones to fence our instruments off, stop pretty girls from stumbling into our speakers and getting lost.<<

I laughed, but onscreen, the television Florian had started fussing with his synthesisers, generating strange space noises, while Klaus and Michael hid behind their hair, looking more than slightly nervous. Flori, of course, never showed his nerves, he just fussed with his machines like a skilled technician. It was strange the way that Michael and Klaus, in the long hair and dungarees that marked them out as weirdo musicians in any other circumstances, looked like they were at home in their natural environment together, while Flori, even in his overalls and a plain white T-shirt, looked like he came from a different planet. I squinted at the T-shirt, and realised it was actually one of mine, slightly too small for him, catching across his broad chest, the short girl's cap-sleeves rolled up to reveal the sinewy muscles of his arms.

After about a minute of electronic birdsong, the onscreen Michael looked up, his gentle face alert, and started his slow, beautiful fingerpicking as Flori's flute meandered and wafted like a summer breeze. Slowly, the three of them seemed to catch the threads of one another's music, as Klaus started to kick out a lazy drumbeat. Florian and Michael seemed to have a good rapport - well, at least they were looking at one another as the played, keeping an eye on what each other were doing. Klaus, however, looked like he was off in another world, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

To be fair, Klaus already looked more like a 'Rock Star' than the other two, in his shining white overalls, and a white silk shirt that floated about his arms as he played, like a pair of enormous angel wings. The camera left the spliced image of the three of them together, and pulled back to show that the three of them were arranged in a loose circle, facing each other across a stage.

>>Oh god this was so hard<< the Michael that was in our sitting room confessed to the Michael on the television, covering his face with his hands, though he couldn't help but peek out at the performance. >>We had to play in this big, empty auditorium, before the audience came in. You have no idea how hard it is to play like that, when you don't have audience reactions to play off.<<

But it seemed to me that the three of them seemed to feed off a tension with one another, that was present, even without an audience. It felt odd to me, the way that Klaus would not look at Flori, even though Flori was supposed to be the leader. He looked at Michael occasionally, as the pair of them seemed to share an almost telepathic musical bond, guitar and kick drum sounding in perfect synch. In a way, the band seemed like an odd triangle, with both Klaus and Flori competing for the spotlight, but in the absence of an audience, it was Michael whose musical attention they strove to capture. The camera showed Michael from a wide angle, and Myrthe hissed and sucked her teeth, wincing as she realised that her beloved boyfriend had actually gone on national television wearing orange socks underneath his brown sandals.

Flori grew more and more animated, operating some foot controller for his electronics, but it was Klaus that the camera lingered on, his flowing blond hair and rock star looks capturing their attention more than Flori and his weird jumble of electronics. Putting his flute aside, Flori produced a violin, setting it across his lap the way he typically played it, but the camera had gone over to Michael's side of the stage. Still, Klaus could not seem to stop showing off, slicing at his drums with extravagant gestures that made his batwing sleeves fly out. The song dipped into a sparse interlude, but it was Klaus who got it going again, pounding his drumkit faster and faster until Michael and Flori were struggling to keep up. They had hit a fast, steady, driving beat, as Klaus and Michael locked together, and played like one person, but they seemed to leave Florian behind somehow.

And just as the song hit a new plateau, suddenly it was over, the three of them holding the last note, and then freezing, Flori's erect posture in total contrast to the other musicians' laid-back slouches. I knew, from the many live gigs I'd attended, that normally this was the cue to go into the next track, but the announcer cut in, and that was it. The segment was over, and the programme was moving on to the next band.

Flori stood up and looked about expectantly, his face a wide grin. >>So what did you all think?<<

He was drowned out by the deafening howls of excitement and congratulations. Michael stepped forward and hugged him, slapping him on the back. And finally, Klaus stood up, still in his rock star sunglasses, and though he was not a hugger, he shook hands with Flori, then shook hands with Michael, before Michael pulled him into a bear-hug. Over on the sofa, Anni and Myrthe and I squealed like fangirls, and hugged one another, teasing back and forth, all >>look, your boyfriend's on the telly<< and >>no, look, _your_ boyfriend is on the telly! << I had no idea at the time, as it was just another night of friendship and conviviality, but it was the last time that all of us would be together.

\----------

It was a beautiful June day that we walked down to the Schneider-Esleben house for a family lunch. To be honest, I really rather liked the family gatherings. Sometimes, even when Florian wasn't there, if I had a spare afternoon, I would walk down, mostly to see Claudia and chat about design, or what art galleries in Düsseldorf had good shows on, or even just discuss our reading. Claudia, I discovered, had a much better eye for what German novels I would enjoy than Ralf had ever had, and I enjoyed reading and discussing her recommendations. But also, to be honest, though I would never admit it to Flori, I just liked being around the family, even such a dysfunctional family as they were. Having grown up an only child, I had always wondered what it would be like to have sisters, and it was an unfamiliar but pleasant feeling to find myself halfway between cool, older, sophisticated Claudia and petulant, teenage but highly analytical Tina.

If Evamaria was home, she would eye me carefully, before laughing. >>Have you no family of your own to go to, Little Mouse?<<

>>Well, actually... not in this country, no<< I confessed, though honestly, Evamaria was completely unlike my own mother, in fact, quite simply the least maternal mother I had yet to meet. If she was in a good mood, she would cluck her tongue and give me a bit of chocolate (Evamaria always had the best chocolates!) but that was about as far as her nurturing went. She always preferred to talk to young people about _ideas_ , and swat concepts about intellectually, as if playing tennis, rather than engage with our emotions.

In her strange way, I think that summoning us all back to the family home for Sunday afternoon dinners was her small way of trying to create a substitute family environment for me, though, really, it was about 10 years too late for Flori. Paul would usually find some way of getting out of them, claiming he had to race back to Hamburg early to head off some crisis or other at the Hochschule. But that Sunday, Paul was there, albeit skulking in the spare bedroom he used as an office. Klaus and Anni were late coming downstairs - for a supposed lodger, he was included in most of the family socialising, to the point where they treated him as just another good-for-nothing son - but Claudia and I were laying the table when the doorbell rang.

>>I always forget<< I said absent-mindedly. >>Is it knife on the right and fork on the left, or is it the other way around?<<

Claudia had to stop and think herself. >>Oh, just put them both on the same side, Jan, no one is going to care. Hang on, who's that at the door? We're not expecting anyone.<<

>>Should we go down?<< I asked.

>>Gertrude will get it<< said Evamaria grandly, sweeping into the room. >>Knife on the right, little mouse, I thought you English were sticklers for etiquette.<<

I picked the cutlery up and started again, putting everything the opposite way round. >>I can never tell my left from my right.<<

>>Me, neither<< confessed Flori, walking into the room with a cup of coffee he must have helped himself to. >>Never saw what the bother was.<<

>>It's easier in English<< I said. "Your right is the hand you write with, the left is the hand that's left over."

>>What if you're left-handed?<< shrugged Flori.

>>English is a silly language<< insisted Tina.

>>Be polite to guests<< scolded Evamaria.

>>Jan isn't a guest, she's practically one of us now<< pointed out Tina.

>>Go and fetch your father<< sighed Evamaria. 

Tina rolled her eyes and got up from the table with the true languor of a bored teenager. But when she got to the door of the dining room, she stopped, her eyes as big as dinner plates. >>Mama, why are the police here?<<

>>What have I told you about fibbing, Tina...<< Evamaria started to say, but as she rose to her feet, Gertrude appeared in the door.

>>Frau Schneider-Esleben, I asked them to wait outside, but they insisted on coming in. One of them says he has a warrant<< said Gertrude apologetically, dropping a nervous little curtsey before fleeing. Two large and imposing policemen, one dark, one fair, both of them looking very terrifyingly German, entered the room.

>>What's this nonsense about a warrant. Tina, I said, fetch your father<< announced Evamaria imperiously, pulling herself to her full height. I had never seen anyone stare down a policeman quite like that before.

Claudia and Flori exchanged nervous looks - I could guess what they were thinking, worrying if either of them had left any cannabis in their rooms.

>>Madam Schneider, we have a warrant to search for a missing person, who we have reason to believe has been staying in this location<< said the dark one, though the fair-haired one looked fairly quailed by Evamaria.

>>Schnieder- _Esleben_ << corrected Evamaria, in a voice that could cut glass. >>Missing person, a nonsense. I have accounted for everyone in my household. One husband, three children, a lodger and two girlfriends, all present and correct for Sunday lunch.<<

Paul appeared behind the policemen, looking most put out, puffing himself up with the brash confidence that only the very rich felt assured they had nothing to fear from policemen. >>What's this about a missing person?<<

>>Are you the owner of this property?<< demanded the dark-haired policeman. Paul nodded. >>Here is the warrant. We have permission to search for Anita Engels, aged 20, 162 centimetres, slim build, long blonde hair and blue eyes.<<

Just at that moment, through the open door, I could see Klaus and Anni coming down the stairs. I tried to catch Anni's eye, and gesture with my chin for her to make herself scarce, but the blond policeman saw me. >>Yes, is there something you wish to add?<<

As Klaus walked across the hall, he suddenly saw the policeman, and froze in his tracks, gesturing for Anni to stop. >>I... erm... I...<< I gestured with my head for them to take off, but I saw that Paul had just seen them, too. But as he opened his mouth to speak, I cried aloud >>Yes, I am Anita Engels, yes it's me you are looking for. The missing person you are searching the house for!<< I raised my voice loud enough for Anni to hear, and a look of panic crossed her face, as she realised what was going on.

>>What are you playing at, Little Mouse?<< muttered Paul, but the policemen had been distracted by my ruse, allowing Klaus and Anni time to slip down the front stairs.

>>But you have short blonde hair; Anita is known to have long hair<< pointed out the fair-haired policeman.

>>Yes, well, it's a haircut. You've heard of short hair on girls, yes?<< I shrugged.

>> _Haircut_? << repeated the dark-haired one, aping my pronunciation. >>If Fraulein Engels is originally a Swedish national, why do you have an English accent? And stand up... you appear to be substantially taller than 162 cm...<<

But as the fugitives left the carpeted hall for the marble stairs, Klaus's hobnailed boots clattered against the stone. The policemen turned, caught sight of a short, long-haired girl, and pushed through the door in pursuit of her. There was a brief fracas as the fair-haired policeman ran over and seized Anni by the elbow. She tried to bite him, just as Klaus leapt for the other, but Paul and Flori managed to grab one arm each and wrestled him away.

>>What are you doing? You can't just... Let me go!<< howled Klaus.

>>Please stop<< hissed Flori. >>If you hit a policeman, you will definitely be arrested. And we can't play a gig next weekend with our drummer in jail.<<

>>Are you Anita Engels?<< demanded the dark-haired policeman, as the fair-haired one nursed his bitten thumb. Anni looked around for a second, but then tried to make a run for it. The dark-haired policeman caught her, and restrained her from behind, taking care to stay away from both teeth and fingernails.

>>What of it?<< she spat.

>>Your father has filed a missing persons report on you. He says the family is moving to Norway tomorrow, and you have run away rather than go.<<

>>Norway?<< yelped Anni. >>I don't want to live in fucking Norway! Klaus, help...<<

>>Don't worry, my love. I'm not going to let you go<< protested Klaus, straining at Paul and Flori's grips.

>>Look, I'm sure there's been a mistake<< said Paul calmly, trying to smooth things over in his most soothing important-rich-man tone. >>This woman is a guest of ours, a friend of our daughter's.<<

>>You can't take her<< snarled Klaus. >>This is kidnapping. I want your names, I'm going to file a complaint... She's my girlfriend. You can't just walk in and take her...<<

>>Ah, you are the boyfriend. Klaus Dinger, I presume?<< asked the blond policeman. Klaus suddenly shut up, realising he had just given himself away, though he wasn't sure for what. >>Restraining order<< announced the policeman, producing another sheet of paper, and carefully folding it into the front pocket of Klaus's overalls. >>You are to stay 500 metres away from the Engels family for the next 48 hours, until they leave the country.<<

>>You can't be serious<< shouted Klaus, as the two policemen struggled to march his protesting girlfriend down the stairs.

>>Klaus!<< wailed Anni, as they half dragged, half carried her off. >>I love you, Klaus!<<

>> _Anni_! << howled Klaus.

Klaus struggled for a moment, but Paul held him firm. >>Look, son, those police mean business. It's not worth going to jail over. We'll go, first thing tomorrow morning, and see my lawyer, OK? But for now, let it go.<<

>>Tomorrow morning, she'll be on a plane for fucking Norway!<< swore Klaus. With his drummer's muscles, he finally managed to push Paul and Flori off him, and dashed down the stairs, only to see the police car pulling away off down the street, Anni's pale face framed in the back window. >>Where's my van? I'm going after her...<<

>>Oh no, you don't<< insisted Flori, chasing after him, and wrestling the keys away from him. >>Listen to my father. Go through the legal channels. You can fight this. But do _not_ go chasing off after the cops. You'll end up in jail - or worse - that way! And how the hell are Power Station going to play gigs with a drummer in jail? <<

>>Fuck Power Station<< roared Klaus. >>They've taken Anni!<<

>>Klaus...<< I went to him and wrapped my arms around him, trying to hug some sense into him. >>I know how much you're hurting right now, but getting yourself arrested is not going to help Anni, in fact, it will make things worse for her. She needs you on the outside, fighting this legally.<<

>>But I love her<< whimpered Klaus, finally collapsing into my embrace. >>She is everything to me.<< For a moment, he laid his head against mine, but then he looked up, defiant, at Flori. >>What would you do, V-2, if English police appeared here tomorrow, and dragged Jan off, back to London? Wouldn't you punch every copper from here to Piccadilly to get her back?<<

I could see fear flash across Flori's face. >>I am not much of a fighter<< he said quietly, but then caught my eye. >>Tomorrow, Jan, you must write to your father.<<


	34. Koffiefontein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since Klaus's girlfriend has been snatched away to Norway, relations between the members of Power Station have degenerated to the point of psychological warfare between Klaus and Florian.
> 
> And as Jan and Florian make plans to secretly marry, so she can get a work visa to stay in Germany, some of her own secrets come out.

From then on, something changed in Klaus. We picked our way through the meal, none of us particularly hungry, as Klaus stood up, sat down, paced across the room like a caged tiger, then flung himself down into a chair again, tearing at his hair. True to his word, Paul took him to a lawyer, first thing on Monday, but the lawyer was unimpressed by Klaus's long, greasy hair and lack of job prospects, and told him it was hopeless. The best thing Klaus could hope for would be to wait until Anni turned 21, and try to marry in Norway. Klaus returned, not broken, but angry and defiant, and ready to take out his wounded heart on the world.

But Klaus soon decided not to hold the _entire_ world responsible for the loss of his beloved, but only the Schneider-Eslebens. 

>>That lawyer of yours, he's a Nazi<< Klaus spat.

>>He's not my lawyer, he's my father's<< Flori corrected somewhat pedantically.

>>The Judge, he's a fucking Nazi, too<< raged Klaus. >>The pair of them, fucking Nazis, both of them in on it.<<

>>Look, I know you're angry at the court system right now, and so am I, but there's no need for name-calling<< I tried to placate him.

>>I am not speaking metaphorically<< howled Klaus. >>I mean, they are literally fucking Nazis. I mean, they were both of them, in the National Socialist Party together, 30 years ago. What hope do we have, of justice, when these fucking assholes still run everything?<<

I looked over at Flori, who looked distressed for a moment, but then nodded, awkwardly, in confirmation. >>This is true, but what can one do.<<

>>One can get fucking angry about it!<< snarled Klaus, pacing like a caged beast.

By the end of the week, Klaus had moved out of the family home and into a squat, not even the nice, well-organised political squat that Michael had vacated to move in with Myrthe, but one on the outskirts of town, known for harbouring runaways and drug dealers. The normally ebullient and flamboyant young man became sullen and withdrawn, and seethed with resentment directed almost entirely against the Schneider-Eslebens. He had rowed ferociously with Claudia, whom he had sniped at and called a whore, now that Hans-Joachim had started visiting the house regularly. But the most personal and persisting of his resentments, those were aimed mostly against Flori.

There were a lot of arguments, and I heard that from my erstwhile housemate Michael, rather than Flori. Though Flori was often visibly upset when he came home from rehearsal early after another row, he tried to bury his emotions and pretend it either wasn't happening, or wasn't affecting him. At first, Klaus vented his anger on everyone in sight, and sometimes lashed out at gentle little Michael, too. But after the first few weeks, when the sting had worn off - and after he had started receiving answers to his plaintive letters to Anni - he started to calm down a bit. He dropped by the Atelier one afternoon, and actually apologised to Michael for snapping at rehearsal the previous evening.

But Flori, Flori did not seem to rate an apology. The arguments between Klaus and Flori grew more frequent, and fiercer. It was odd, the way that the same anarchic single-minded energy which had brought Flori and Klaus so close together in a riotous double act, when Ralf had first left the band, now seemed to be ripping the pair of them apart. Klaus started making a lot of remarks about rich men and business men and bourgeois heirs pretending to be artists. Flori pretended they didn't smart, shrugging his shoulders, thinking Klaus's radicalism was another affectation, just like his white painters' overalls, but soon the divisions in the band started to take their toll.

Flori asked me to accompany them to their next gig, up in Bremen, as it was at the weekend. Even though I had a lot of work to catch up on at the Atelier, when I saw the slightly hunted look in his eyes, I agreed. Silke and Myrthe would have to manage without me for one weekend. But even the van-ride was tense. Klaus was driving, with Michael in the passenger seat, and the pair of them kept up a steady stream of banter, from which Klaus seemed to be actively excluding Flori. Flori didn't protest, he sat quietly in the back and drew up a set list of the songs they wanted to perform, which were going to be taped, for broadcast on the radio.

But when Klaus saw the setlist, he ripped it in two. >>This is shit. I'm tired of these fucking songs. Let's improvise the set, from those guitar riffs that Michael was playing in rehearsal last week.<<

>>Hmmm<< said Michael tactfully. >>Do you really think so?<< Michael never disagreed openly with Klaus, and in fact was usually quite happily lead astray by him, but this was about as strong a dissent as he ever ventured.

>>But it's for the radio<< Flori pointed out. >>People want to hear the songs they are familiar with, Ruckzuck and Megaherz. The radio people will be very disappointed if we don't give them a good version of Ruckzuck.<<

>>I'm who the fans come to see<< Klaus insisted, pointing at his own chest. >>So they'll listen to what I want to play them.<<

Flori and I exchanged glances. Klaus had always had a bit of a rock star attitude, suffering from delusions of grandeur like most drummers we seemed to know. In a funny way, it was part of his charm; that unsinkable self-belief fuelled his undeniable onstage charisma and presence. But this edge of anger and arrogance was new. >>People come to see _Power Station_ << said Flori insisted. >>Not any of us as individuals. If they cared about there being a star, they would have complained when Ralf left. And they didn't. It's about the music, not us as individuals.<<

It was the first time that Flori had mentioned Ralf since the interview, so my ears pricked up, wondering if he was ever going to ask about Aachen. I could see his face going rather red, and knew he was getting emotionally heated, so I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, trying to symbolically protect him.

But Klaus didn't even notice. >>That's because the rhythm section is what attracts people to this band. No one noticed the organ. And no one notices the fucking flute. Didn't you see the preview in the arts paper? _Powerhouse of a rhythm section_ , it said. Haha, nothing about your little flute, V-2.<< He added a little laugh, like he was pretending it was a joke, but it was very obvious that there was some real animosity behind his barbed words. Even the nickname that had once been friendly, a silly ribbing, seemed to take on a nasty undertone in Klaus's voice.

Flori normally just shut down when there was conflict about, but for some reason he rose to the bait. >>Every band since the cavemen's time had a drummer. Since men started banging rocks together. There's nothing subtle or sophisticated about hitting things for a living. Only one rock band in Germany currently has a flautist. I think that makes us pretty special, no matter what this arts paper said.<< He, too, said in a tone that made it seem like he was joking, but I could feel the muscles of his shoulders tense under my arm.

>>Any idiot can lay the pipe<< snorted Klaus, a vulgar idiom for shagging in common German. 

>>Yes, but not any idiot can attract a record label. Don't forget that, Klaus. It was me who got the record deal, not you. I had a deal with RCA in London before we ever met you, and I have my name on the contract with Phillips, not you. You are the third drummer to work with Power Station so far and I'm sure you won't be the last.<< It was the closest thing I had ever heard to a threat from Flori.

>>Hmmm. Is this the whole truth? Actually, I heard it was Ralf that scored the deal with Phillips<< said Michael quietly. He didn't normally take sides when Klaus and Flori kicked off, but perhaps he had just realised that his name wasn't on that Phillips contract, either.

>>Not so tough when old Ralfi's not around to back you up, are you, Flori<< sneered Klaus, in a slightly salacious tone that made me afraid for where he was going to go next.

>>Alright, knock it off, you guys<< I said, in a sharp voice, as loudly as I dared. To my great relief, Klaus, perhaps because he was so surprised to hear me speak at all, fell silent. >>What are you really arguing about? Because if you're actually arguing about the set list, there's a really obvious solution. Play Ruckzuck, play one or two songs that people know, and then play one or two of the new tracks.<<

>>That actually sounds like a perfectly reasonable compromise, don't you think, Klaus?<< said Michael in an even, pacifying tone. Klaus didn't say anything, but kind of grunted in agreement.

I felt Flori's shoulders relax underneath my arm. >>You know, we have been playing those songs from the album an awfully long time. We could start to think about going into the studio to start work on the next album.<< There was a pause, as Michael and Klaus exchanged looks. >>You might, you know, receive writing credit which would entitle you to a share of the publishing.<<

At that, Michael smiled, but Klaus still looked doubtful. And for the rest of the ride, they fell to bickering - though it was more good-natured bickering - about which of the new songs they would perform.

The gig that night was particularly electric. Radio Bremen were certainly getting their money's worth from the performance, as all three of them seemed to crank their amplifiers up to the max, the tensions between them crackling into life in pounding drums and heavy, distorted guitar, while Flori released squalls of unholy noise from his synthesiser boxes. Klaus was such a show-off onstage, he really put his all into his playing, and somehow managed to upstage both of the lead instrumentalists from behind his kit. Despite his atrocious attitude, he was still one of the most talented drummers I had ever watched. Maybe I was biased, but all three of them were incredibly unique musicians that complemented one another in unexpected ways. If anything, the odd personality dynamic between them seemed to heighten the music, as each of them played with greater intensity. They barely seemed to notice the audience; their eyes were on each other in that weird triad where Flori watched Michael and Michael watched Klaus and Klaus was lost in his own world.

We stayed overnight in Bremen, as guests of one of the radio technicians. I was relieved, as Klaus had been drinking heavily after the show, and I did not want to get into a car with him. We drove back home the next morning, Klaus too hungover to drive, crumpled up in the back seat, while Michael drove and Flori rode shotgun with the map on his knees.

I wanted to say something to Klaus, wanted to ask if how Anni was, if he'd had a letter from her recently, how he was holding up since their separation. But he eyed me warily, pulled the hood of his jacket down over his eyes, and did his best to sleep or at least pretend to.

We parted company at Mintropstrasse. (I still found it comical, the lengths that they would go to, not to allow me inside. Even though it was raining and they wanted to unload quickly, Flori insisted that I should watch the van while they unloaded the gear.) It still felt odd that Klaus climbed back in his van and drove off to his squat alone, rather than driving us up to Golzheim. But I said I'd go to the Atelier with Michael, as I was feeling guilty about not helping with the designs for the autumn / winter collection. So he and I caught the bus to the Altstadt, while Flori headed for the train station.

>>Are they always this bad?<< I asked, once we'd found seats on the coach.

>>They were quite subdued, to be honest<< Michael shrugged with a gentle smile.

>>I meant yesterday. That argument in the van seemed a bit more than the usual pre-gig nerves.<<

Michael made a bittersweet face. >>That was the argument I thought was quite subdued. They can get much more aggressive than that... Well, Klaus gets personal and vicious. He plays dirty, like psychological warfare. Flori just gets angry. I was quite shocked, the first time I saw it, because Flori is such a mild-mannered man most of the time. It's like another person comes out when he loses his temper. I understand that nickname now - he really is like a V-2 rocket when he blows up.<<

>>But...<< I protested. >>That is not what the nickname was about. Flori is not an angry man. I have known him for nearly a year, and I have never seen him lose his temper. Not once.<<

>>Well, he seems angry to me lately. Or maybe it just seems like he blows up far more frequently now.<< Michael shrugged. >>Flori can be inflexible at the best of times, but when he's angry, he's like a brick wall. He backs himself into a corner, and it becomes a matter of principle to him, that he will _never_ back down. But then Klaus really does provoke him. I can shrug him off because I know he doesn't really mean it. But Flori seems to lack some kind of... skin that the rest of us have. <<

I paused to consider this. I had always thought of Flori as so strong and so stoic that I resisted the idea. People told me Flori was very odd, but he never seemed so to me. Flori seemed very natural and loving; it was the rest of the world that was confusing and strange and made no sense. But maybe that was it, maybe that was the skin he was missing. >>You have to understand that Flori sees things on a very different level from most people. There's no subterfuge, no guile, but he does just perceive things differently, so he reacts differently. He's... well, he's special. But in a good way, a way that I really love.<<

Michael smiled as he reached above my head to ring the bell for our stop. >>I know that. And it's beautiful, that you love him so much for it. But Klaus is just so pig-headed. For Klaus, there is only one way of doing things, and that is Klaus's way.<< We stood up and made our way to the door, blinking in the sunlight as we climbed off the bus. >>They are both very unique, but very frustrating people. I don't think the music we make would be so compelling if they weren't. But it makes it difficult, balancing two such conflicting and complex characters.<<

>>But you're excited about going into the studio, yes? I'm excited to hear what you record<< I confessed.

>>Well...<< Michael took a deep breath. >>It should be interesting. It's just... Well, Flori can be so hard to communicate with sometimes. As his lover, I'm sure you must have the same problem...? Sometimes? How to pull things out of him when he doesn't want to speak or explain? When he just withdraws into himself and refuses to talk to anyone?<<

I chewed on my lip, and thought about it. I had a pretty good idea what he meant. >>Maybe I'm a terrible girlfriend, but I let him be when he's like that. If you push him, that upsets him, it just makes him withdraw further.<<

>>Klaus likes to push people<< sighed Michael, as we turned into our street. >>In more ways than one.<<

>>I...<< I shrugged hopelessly. I had always just treated Flori the way that I instinctually wanted to be treated, and found that it somehow worked. >>You have to just let him know that you're open, and willing to talk, and then just leave him. When he's ready, he'll come back to you.<<

>>I can understand that. But I think that's going to be impossible for Klaus.<<

>>But just be aware, that his communications may not be in the way that you expect. Sometimes words are too hard for him. But then, he'll come back to me with a little drawing that says what he needs to say. Or even... a book. Sometimes he will come to me, after a silent period, and he will hand me a book or a magazine that he insists I must read. And it's often something completely random, and I feel like... why are you giving this to me, Flori, it's not something I'm the remotest bit interested in! But then, he's underlined or otherwise marked in pencil, some sentence, some sentiment that puts it into words better than he can. And that's what he's trying to tell me. He just couldn't say it out loud; he needs to say it kind of... sideways.<<

Michael stopped and looked at me, as if realising something. >>I have just realised, since you've said that, that he does the same thing to me, with music. That he will become obsessed with some snippet of a song. It winds Klaus up so much, because you know Klaus is so strident about the purity of music. But Flori will get obsessed with a line from... often something terrible, some pop song, some bit of schlager music. Maybe it's the line in the song that he wants us to hear, not the song itself. Christ, I had never thought of it like that before.<< He stopped, reaching into his bag for his keys. >>But how on earth do I convince someone as blunt and straightforward as Klaus to let him communicate in this... strange... musical telegraph way?<<

I studied his face carefully as we reached our front door, and he fiddled with the key in the lock. >>You're so laid-back and so easy-going, but both Klaus and Florian have such strong characters. Do you get stuck in the middle a lot, huh?<<

>>You know, it was not so bad when Ralf was in the band, but now it is... unbalanced<< he conceded diplomatically.

>>I would have thought Ralf was worse than both of them put together<< I snorted as we climbed the stairs.

>>In music, yes, Ralf is very single-minded. But in dealing with musicians, he is much more like a politician. He has... diplomatic skills that Flori lacks.<<

>>Well, I'll be<< I mused, discovering a side to Ralf I had never guessed at.

>>You'll be what?<< Michael blinked at me as we climbed the endless stairs. I very much missed the lift at Flori's and my building every time I climbed them.

>>Never mind, an English idiom that doesn't translate<< I sighed.

We got upstairs to find Silke and Myrthe finishing up a meal. >>How was the gig?<< asked Myrthe, rising to kiss her partner.

>>Exhausting<< confessed Michael. >>Plus, I had to drive home. I think I am going to go in our room and lie down for a little nap.<<

But as soon as he had shuffled off, Silke looked at me meaningfully. >>Jan, we need to talk.<<

My heart sank at the tone in her voice. >>Can I have a cup of coffee first? I, too, am very tired from the long journey.<<

>>Yes, let's make coffee and go upstairs.<< she agreed.

I found something to eat in the fridge, and followed them up to the Atelier, which was festooned with clothing in varying stages of unfinished. >>You have been very hard at work while I've been gone<< I observed, noting that they had finished off the roll of fabric I had wanted to turn in for my block-printing end of term project.

>>Yes, we have<< agreed Silke. >>The boutique has already sold out of our Spring Collection, and they ordered a dozen more dresses the same. We need to finish them this weekend.<<

"Bloody hell" I swore, wondering how we were going to pull that off, and somehow do our schoolwork, too. >>Though I suppose it's not so bad. They're already designed, and we still have the patterns. We just have to make them.<<

>>They have also placed an order, in advance, for the Autumn / Winter collection.<<

>>They haven't even seen it yet! How can they? We haven't finished designing it!<< I protested.

>>I showed them a few sketches, and they already know that our work sells well. This time, they want three times the amount that we produced last time<< Silke said proudly.

>>We can't!<< I sputtered. >>I have exams and end of term projects. I simply don't have the time right now. Can't they wait another month?<<

>>No<< said Silke, suddenly growing very serious. >>This is our career now, and we need to take it very seriously. I want to plan the biggest, most daring collection yet.<<

>>But what about your schoolwork?<< I sputtered.

>>I've made my decision<< Silke announced. >>I'm leaving school to concentrate on designing. The Kunstakademie has nothing more to teach me; I learn more from the boutique and the buyers than I ever do in class. I want to go professional. So I need to know. Are you with us?<<

>>Us?<< I glanced over at Myrthe. >>Are you dropping out of school, too?<<

>>No<< insisted Myrthe, lowering her eyelashes modestly. >>But my role is not as critical as you two.<<

>>Nonsense<< I said.

>>I help with the sewing<< Myrthe said humbly. >>And I do the styling, put things together once the collection is complete. That's what I enjoy most, finding the accessories, the hairstyles, the make-up, the details that make everything perfect. But in terms of the hard work that has to be done in advance, that's all you and Silke.<<

>>Don't underestimate yourself<< I told her, but Silke cut me off.

>>Look, Jan. Myrthe and I are in. We want to incorporate. Start a proper company - not to mention, cut out Helmut and his extortionate finders' fee. But we need to know. Your student visa is up at the end of term. Are you staying in Germany, or are you going back to England?<<

I took a deep breath. >>To stay, I have to marry Flori.<<

Myrthe grinned. >>I told you she would do it. I told you those two are in love. It will be a beautiful wedding.<<

Silke let out a great sigh of relief. <,Ha ha, I've just realised! If you marry Florian, you will be a Schneider. We can call the company Weber und Schneider, won't that be funny. Except I am the Schneider and you are the Weber, really.<< It took me a moment to remember that Schneider meant Tailor and Weber meant Weaver in German, and she was making a pun on our occupations and surnames.

I felt my head spinning, like I was being bullied and railroaded into doing something I hadn't agreed to, like the whole thing with Ralf all over again. >>Hold on, wait up. We haven't actually decided that we're going to marry yet, after all.<<

>>But you've talked about it, yes?<<

>>Look, if we do it, it _has_ to be a secret. I don't want people at the University finding out... and I don't want it to affect their band. It's just a piece of paper, so that I can stay in the country. And no big, beautiful wedding either. Ten minutes, registry office, and no one outside this room the wiser, OK? << I protested.

>>You know<< said Silke, in a sing-song tone. >>That Johannes has just accepted a new job.<<

>>Remind me. Who is Johannes again?<< I asked, feeling very stupid.

>>The guy she's currently sleeping with; do keep up<< sighed Myrthe.

>>The son of the owner of the Kö Boutique? Or someone else? Your love-life moves too fast for me.<<

>>You met him at Flori's party, Jan. He is _manager_ of his mother's boutique << Silke said testily. >>But he is moving on to bigger and better things. He is now a buyer for an international wholesale-distribution-company. Which means, he can help us sell our clothes not just in Düsseldorf, but in Vienna, in Paris, even in London...<<

I whistled at the scale of her ambition. >>You think the three of us can make that many clothes?<<

>>I think if the three of us form a company, in a few seasons, we will be hiring other people to make the clothes that we design.<<

I looked at her carefully. Clothes made from the fabrics I'd designed, selling in boutiques in Paris and London! I had to admit the idea was seductive, perhaps even intoxicating. But I also knew that I had to finish school. And getting married, finishing school, and starting a brand new company, it just seemed like an awful lot to take on, all at once.

Nevertheless, that evening, after I'd finished block printing another roll of cotton fabric until my arms and shoulders ached from moving the heavy wooden blocks, I sat down in my former bedroom, to write a letter to my father.

Dear Papa,  
So I have been in Germany almost a year now! Who would have thought that the time would pass so quickly? And yet, as the end-date approaches, I find that I don't want to leave. I have fallen in love, you see. I've fallen in love with Düsseldorf. I've fallen in love with the Kunstakademie and the amazing, creative, talented friends I've made here. And last, but most importantly, I've fallen in love with a young man. His name is Florian. He is... he is kind, and gentle, and so clever he makes my head spin. He is a truly beautiful human being, inside and out, and we understand and care for one another on a level I never thought I would ever know. To assure you of his intentions, I'm sure I must tell you that he comes from a good family, his father is a very well-known architect, called Schneider-Esleben, and Florian also works in a creative field. He has offered to marry me - not just so I can stay in the country, but because he loves me. I believe we are well-suited, and he treats me well, Papa. You would like him as much as I do. And I would like you to like him. Because, obviously, since I am not yet 21, I need your permission to marry him, as barbaric a medieval holdover as that might be.  
Lots of love,  
Jan

I walked down to the post office before class on Monday morning, and paid the extra money to send it air mail. The reply came back, a week later, also by air mail, not one letter but two, one wrapped up inside the other. I read them, then handed them both over to Flori.

Dearest Jan,  
My beloved daughter, I know you are as headstrong as your mother, so there is no point in trying to change your mind or telling you to wait. If you say you're in love with this fellow, then you're in love with this fellow. But if you are allowing your current fascination with the country of Germany and the city of Düsseldorf (I _know_ how you become fixated on places and ideas and even people) to sway you into making a lifelong decision on impulse, then I want to protect you from your own impulsiveness. You know your mother and the Van de Merwes will never allow you to marry without a pre-nuptial agreement so that your inheritance defaults back to the family in the event of a divorce or lack of heirs, and not to this German. (You might as well know that I was... rather roughly persuaded into signing such an agreement myself, despite the fact of your mother being four months along with you, when we married.) So that is the sole condition I place on my permission. Other than that, I wish you every happiness. Bring your German to Manchester when you deign to visit these shores again, and I will try to like this clever-clogs Kraut for your sake.  
Your ever loving Papa

The second letter came on headed paper, and had been notarised by his lawyer.

Dear Sirs,  
I give permission for my only daughter, Jan, to marry Florian Schneider-Esleben on the sole condition that he sign a pre-nuptial agreement in which he renounces any claim upon her personal property, or inheritance, in the event of a divorce or death without issue.  
Yours sincerely,  
Peter DeLay

Florian read both letters, then lay back on the bed laughing. >>It seems our parents are more alike than either one of us would like to admit. I'll sign anything he likes. I'm hardly marrying you for your Ferranti shares.<<

I frowned, and tried to bury myself into the crook between his chest and arm, wishing I could make myself very small. >>Don't you even want to know what you're giving up?<<

>>I don't care<< he shrugged, putting his arm about me and caressing my hair.

>>If I tell you, you might.<< I said to the thick curly hair of his armpit. >>My mother comes from a very old mining family in South Africa<<

>>I thought your mother was a secretary. You told me she was the keypunch operator that input your father's code.<< Flori had a surprisingly good memory.

>>She was. But she learned her secretarial skills in the family business. A diamond mine in a place called Koffiefontein.<<

>>Koffiefontein<< interrupted Flori in a rather silly voice. >>A fountain of coffee? Sounds like my kind of place. Can we move there?<<

>>No, it's an awful place. Even my mother tried to get away. When she ran away to Cape Town, hoping to see more of the world than a dusty mining town, those were the skills she used to support herself. Until she met my father.<<

>>So now your father is not a computing pioneer but a miner? A diamond miner?<<

I shook my head. >>No. The agreement my father was forced to sign means that my mother's inheritance never goes to a husband. You will be forced to sign that same agreement. So my family can still control me and my inheritance. If you want me, you have to play by their games. Now do you see why I don't want to get married? All the... complications that come into play, for me, getting married?<<

Flori looked down at me, his eyes glittering. >>You own a diamond mine. You actually own a diamond mine.<<

>>It isn't mine. It's my family's. They use the company, the wealth, and the whole thing of keeping it in the family, as a way of controlling unruly daughters and trying to pull in the husbands, hook them with the money.<<

>>And all this time, you've been scraping together pennies for plumcake and cadging drinks at the Creamcheese Club, and your family owns a diamond mine?<< His face, his tone of voice seemed more amused than accusatory.

>>I don't want it. I don't want the money. It's dirty money, a dirty trade. It's dirty, unsafe, dangerous work, and they exploit the African workers shamelessly. It's a dirty, nasty, horrible business, and I wish I could just take the whole thing and give it away. I mean, can you imagine what Michael and Klaus, with their anti-Aparteid rallies and their anti-Capitalist protests, would say, if they knew that I was the enemy, that I was the heir to their worst nightmare?<<

>>I see your point.<< He removed his hand from my hair to rub his face, pushing his fingers up into his eye sockets to press against the nerves.

>>Do you still want to marry me?<< I asked, almost afraid of the answer. >>I would understand if... knowing all this now... you didn't<<

>>Well.<< His eyes crinkled up in a smile, and I could see that he was going to relapse into that typical Flori sense of humour. >>They say that Stockhausen married an heiress so that he could concentrate on writing avant-guard symphonies without ever having to worry about making money. Maybe I shall marry an heiress and write avant-guard symphonies, huh?<< His eyes twinkled.

>>Flori<< I said, trying very hard not to get emotional with him, though I wasn't sure whether I wanted to laugh, or hit him. >>Be serious. Do you still want to do this.<<

The smile slipped from his face as he realised I was not laughing. >>Well<< he conceded, followed by a long pause that made me feel absolutely bereft. >>Point one. I don't have to take on the dirty diamond mine if we sign the pre-nup. No diamond mines for me, no Hochhausen for you.<< A tiny grin at that, but then his face grew grave again. >>Point two. If I don't marry you to keep you in Germany, you have to go back to South Africa, to apartheid, to this evil exploitative business. So I think it's a political duty and moral obligation to keep you from that. So... we will marry.<<

I laughed at how serious his voice actually sounded. >>But we keep it a secret, yes?<<

He nodded slowly. >>We keep it all a secret.<< Then he folded up the letters and put both on the bedside table for safe-keeping.

The next morning, Florian took the second letter, the more formal one notarised by a lawyer, and he took it into town, to his father's lawyer, to start the legal process by which contracts would be entered into, and pre-nuptuals signed, and eventually, we could get married. Married! Christ, I wasn't ready. I was still a child in too many ways. I still ran out of laundry and had to rinse my knickers in the bathroom sink and dry them in the oven. I still put on Cowsills records when Flori wasn't home, and bounced around, dancing the Frug and the Pony and dances I'd learned when I was a kid. I still left all of my homework in a great rush until the last minute, and had to stay up all night, tanked up on Mintropstrasse cafe coffee to get my assignments turned in at the end of term.

Thankfully, the tutor for my Screen Printing class was not just understanding, but totally impressed by our resourcefulness in selling our designs commercially. So she allowed me to turn in a finished dress made from cloth I'd designed and screen printed, as Silke had used up the last of the bolt of cloth. I put together a project for Beuys' class, based on my polaroids, turning the bizarre interpolations that Klaus and Michael had done to our mood boards into a form of pop culture collage. 

Beuys, however, never did anything so mundane as grade students' essays or their work. If he had not accosted me in the Creamcheese club to discuss Morphogenesis, I would never have guessed that he even read them! He said, publicly, that he viewed the class as a collaborative process, and that everyone would get the same mark, while the rumour was that he was known to pass or fail entire classes based on 'intuitions' he had received while in a shamanic dream state. For some unknown reason, maybe his spirits had told him that this year's class was a particularly fine crop, or maybe he had particularly enjoyed the group debates in class, but all of us got Firsts. I breathed a great sigh of relief. My grade point average in my two other classes had unmistakably suffered on account of my heavy extracurricular workload, but Beuys' First redeemed my mark enough that the Kunstakademie agreed to offer me an unprecedented place for my final year of school, on the condition that I could sort my visa out.

And finally, though my mark at the Engineering school did not affect anything, I was greatly flattered and pleased to find that Grundesbach had given me a First. There was a personal note in with the file, which the school stated would be kept on my 'personal record' - blimey, the Germans were keen on these records.

_Jan is a remarkable student, and a thoroughly gifted programmer. Her code shows an aptitude and an understanding far above any other student I have ever taught. In fact, although I had agreed, since her lab partner left halfway through the course, that I would mark only the work she completed, she not only completed all of the assigned work, but turned in work that would have merited a First in its own right, all the more stunning for having been completed by one person, rather than two. i have to confess that when she started the course, I did not believe that a young woman would be able to complete it. However, she has more than shown me that a single woman is worth two male programmers. This is a First with distinction, and it is the Engineering School's loss if she does not return._

"In your face!" I shouted at an imaginary Schmidt and Hissing, as I danced about the apartment, waving the letter in the air. I wondered what grade their spaghetti code had received, though I didn't dare ask.


	35. Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the personal problems between Klaus and Florian spill over into professional problems, Power Station are worried about their upcoming recording sessions with Conny.
> 
> And with his architectural exams behind him, Ralf reappears in Düsseldorf, though things are not entirely as they seem with him, either.

Florian was in a very odd place that whole summer of 1971, and his enthusiasm for my university results was somewhat muted. I knew that Power Station were still having trouble. Though the gigs had been going well, the arguments had been getting worse and worse. They had scheduled a meeting with their esteemed producer, Conny, who had come to the rehearsal space, and listened very carefully to their new material. According to Florian, he had hated it, and told them to go back and start again. Not entirely trusting Flori's version of events, I waited until one afternoon in the Atelier and asked Michael. Michael told me that Conny had said that the work showed a great deal of promise, but that it required refinement. Recording sessions had been booked, but not for another month yet, as Conny wanted them to go home and work on the material some more.

>>What's wrong with the songs?<< I asked. Flori had picked up the habit of taping most of the shows, and bringing them home to play on the new Hi-Fi tape player I'd bought him for his birthday. They sounded fantastic to me - urgent and driving, albeit rather unlike most of the first album.

>>Well, they're not really songs<< confessed Michael sheepishly. >>We have names for them... well, sort-of. But we never play them the same way twice. Flori just picks up one of his flutes, tells us, this is my C-flute, so this one's in C, and off we go.<<

>>But Flori tapes everything, I know he does. He goes through afterwards, and picks out the bits he particularly likes.<<

>>But that doesn't mean we can always remember it, or execute it the same way.<< Michael shrugged. >>Flori is properly classically trained, so if he goes through a tape and transcribes the melody, he can actually sort of recreate what we were doing. Me, I have no formal training, but I can play by ear. I can muddle through, usually. But Klaus is... he's so unpredictable. He can never play anything the same way twice, and if you ask him how he did something he's forgotten, he gets very angry, and you know the kind of things he throws about - telling Flori that this is musical fascism, and counterproductive to musical and artistic freedom. He thinks Flori is being unreasonable, the old V-2, trying to turn an improvisation into a composed piece. Which... you know, maybe it is unreasonable. Improvisation is improvisation. But when Conny comes to the studio, and says to you 'Yes, this song is really fantastic, play me again the Middle 8' and you cannot actually remember which bit was the Middle 8, let alone play it again, well, this is a problem.<<

I considered this for a minute. >>Maybe Conny should just bring his recording gear to Mintropstrasse, and record you improvising, and edit together the bits he likes so much. Isn't that what Holger said Can do?<<

>>We are not Can<< said Michael, with an edge of irritation that sounded like it was a touchy subject. I knew that Can and Power Station had played a number of gigs together across Germany, and who knew what tensions had developed, so I let it drop.

But Silke interrupted the conversation, frowning. >>Really, we should just ban conversations about Power Station during working hours. Because honestly, all you two ever talk about is Florian. Tell me, Jan, do you ever talk _to_ Florian about our work, as much as you seem to spend talking _about_ him, with other people? <<

>>I do, actually, you know<< I shot back. >>He, at least, appreciates my computer-generated animal prints far more than you do.<<

But still, her words rankled. I was forever finding out things about my lover from other people, as if Florian were some kind of experiment to be studied and discussed from every angle. Maybe there was some truth to what my father had said in his letter - but it was not Düsseldorf or even Germany that I was fixated on. It was Florian.

So that night, I put on a pot of coffee and sat up and waited for Flori to come home from rehearsal. Fortunately, it wasn't that late a night, and he rolled in about half midnight, though he seemed surprised to see me lying on the sofa, reading a book. >>Why are you up so late, Little Mouse?<< he asked, dropping a kiss on the top of my head.

I shrugged. >>Couldn't sleep.<< It wasn't a lie, not really. >>How was rehearsal?<<

He didn't answer; he retreated to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine. >>Do you want a glass of our finest Rhineland gold?<<

>>Yes, please.<<

When he came back, he handed me a glass of white wine and sat down in the large chair opposite me, rubbing his eyes thoughtfully. There were dark circles underneath, nearly as dark as the stubble of his beard.

>>Was rehearsal alright?<< I persisted.

>>Yes and no.<<

>>Do you not want to talk about it?<<

But Flori suddenly stopped rubbing his face and looked at me, half fearful and yet seemingly half pitiful, as if asking for help. >>I don't know what to say<< he finally confessed, as the struggled showed on his face. >>Something seems to be going wrong, but I don't know what. Klaus is so angry, all of the time. And Michael... Michael used to take my side in things - or, at least, he would stay neutral. But now I'm not so sure.<<

>>When is the recording session?<< I asked.

>>In a couple of weeks.<<

>>I'm sure you'll pull something together by then<< I said encouragingly.

But what he said next took me completely by surprise. >>Do you want to come with us?<<

>>What?<< I stuttered, completely taken aback. It wasn't that I didn't want to go, it was just that I was so surprised to have been invited. >>What do you need me for?<<

Florian twisted himself into a man-shaped pretzel as he tried to shrug and scratch the back of his own neck at the same time. >>Because you take better photos of us than most people do. You capture our personalities, as well as our looks. It would be good to have you there... you know, to document the process of recording. I thought... well, school is finished for the summer, for you, yes? You might have the time?<<

I took a deep breath. Silke, of course, had acted the hard taskmaster and insisted that Myrthe and I start treating the Atelier like a full-time job. More than full-time, sometimes, it seemed. But this seemed important, to Flori. >>Yes, of course, if you want. I'd be happy to come.<<

>>Just for a day or two. You don't have to stay the whole week. I'm sure it will be very boring for you.<<

>>No, it'll be fun.<< I smiled at him brightly. >>Do you want to put tonight's cassette on?>

>>You don't want to listen to that<< said Flori coyly. I knew he made one every night, but usually he waited until I went out, to review it.

>>I do. Put it on.<<

He stood up and went over to the tape player, inserting the cassette and rewinding it. But when he hit play, there was no music. There was only the sound of shouting in the background. It sounded like Klaus was really worked up about something, though his words were indistinct. >>Oh, no. Let me fast forward over this part<< he said sheepishly. After a few seconds, he released the fast forward button, but this time it was his own voice, very loud and very angry, right by the microphone, berating Klaus for being unable to replicate a previous performance. >>My goodness this is...<< He looked up at me, as if he had not realised how much his band argued, and he was embarrassed. But finally, he found a passage of music. >>Ah, here. You will like this one. It is new, and very beautiful, I think. The guitar on this is particularly pretty. Michael has outdone himself.<<

As he sat down, listening intently, I marvelled at the sounds coming out of the speakers. The recording quality was terrible, it sounded as if they were playing at the bottom of a tin can, but the song was lovely. Klaus was playing a soft but driving rhythm, as Michael swept up and down arpeggios on the guitar, and Flori's flute drifted over the top, as soft as windblown snow. It seemed utterly bizarre that the three men who had been shouting at each other for the rest of the tape seemed capable of creating something so hauntingly lovely together.

>>I love this, it's incredible<< I said, smiling at him. >>What's it called?<<

>>We call it Cactus... because it reminds me of drifting sand in the desert.<<

>>Yes! I thought of drifting snow, but the desert works, too. Somewhere barren but very beautiful. I think this could be the most lovely thing you've done yet.<<

>>When it works, it works so beautifully. That's what makes it so frustrating.<< He raised his arms, his hands palm up, a gesture of defeat.

I stood up, walked over to him and put my arms around him, hugging him tightly. >>It's worth persisting, I think<< I told him softly, and the way that he folded himself into my embrace made me realise it was something that he needed to hear. >>What you are making is the most beautiful music I have ever heard. I know you will find a way to get through these difficulties.<<

>>I will try to believe you then<< Flori breathed into my ear, before picking me up and carrying me backwards to the bed.

I carried on with my schedule much as usual for the next few weeks, though instead of school, I went to the Atelier. But with the Engineering school broken up for the summer, I was delighted to find that I could use the computer lab as much as I wanted, almost every weekend. I was refining my pattern generation program, seeing what happened to my leopard spots if I tried three pigments, or even four. The algorithms took longer to propagate, but the patterns, when they worked (and to be fair, sometimes they were just ugly noise) were startlingly pretty. Perhaps it was the same problem that Florian was experiencing - it was so hard to tell what reaction would produce loveliness, and what reaction would produce noise and shouting.

But one afternoon, I came gratefully in from the blinding heat of the July day to the air conditioned cool of the computer lab. As I walked down the passage into the lab, still humming one of Flori's flute riffs from that Cactus song they'd been working on, I found the lights in the computer lab already on. And when I looked at the chair in front of the input terminal, I saw a ghost. Because there were a familiar pair of slightly slanted shoulders in a leather jacket, with long, greasy light brown hair spilling over them.

I blinked, thinking the apparition would go away, because I had hallucinated Ralf sitting there so many times during tired moments of long shifts when I wanted to show my code to someone. But the phantasm remained, even looking up and blinking sheepishly at me as he heard my footsteps approach.

>>Ralf! What on earth are you doing here?<< I blurted out.

>>I... well, I erm, I became quite fond of a game that some of the engineers installed on the Aachen computing system.<< He gestured towards the screen, where primitive graphics seemed to be displaying a long green rectangle bouncing a ball off a wall.

>>You came all the way here, to play a computer game?<<

>>Well, no. Not entirely.<< He twisted again, that slightly shifty expression crossing his face. I had forgotten how underhanded Ralf could be. >>I ran into Peter at the electrical supply shop earlier, and he remembered me from our Coding class. He even remembered that you used to be my lab partner, lucky for me. So I asked him when you were usually in, and he told me, this time on Saturday afternoons. You are... reassuringly predictable.<<

>>Why were you looking for me?<< I demanded. I still didn't trust him, and I was furious with Peter for filling him in on my schedule.

>>No particular reason. I just wanted to... see how you were? Catch up, I suppose?<< He squirmed as I eyed him suspiciously. >>Perhaps I missed our little computer room chats?<<

>>How's Marijka?<< I asked pointedly.

He shrugged with a nonchalance that irritated me. >>We split up at the end of term, when she went back to Brussels. It was not a serious fling.<<

>>Flori and I are still together; we are still very happy<< I replied, cutting off that line of questioning before he could bring it up.

>>Oh, no, no, no, no, no<< he protested. >>You mistake me. I am not trying to... win you back or anything. It is a purely social call. Purely platonic.<< As I glared at him, he fiddled uncomfortably with the inside seam of his leather trousers, his hand clasped tightly between his crossed legs. I thought to myself, how unbearably uncomfortable it must be to walk about in those leather trousers, in the heat of the July.

He must have noticed my looking at his trousers, because he changed the subject abruptly. >>Have you heard the news? Jim Morrison has died.<<

I stared back at him, shocked. >>Actually, I had not heard.<<

>>I loved The Doors<< said Ralf moodily. >>Their organ-player's compositional style left a very big impression on me.<< I looked down at the leather trousers, and thought, yes, that is not all that made an impression on you, but I said nothing. >>He died in Paris. I had no idea he was so close. I might have...<< His voice drifted off, as I wondered what on earth he thought he might have done.

I struggled for something to say. >>Did they say how?<<

Ralf shrugged vaguely. >>The rumour is that it was drugs, but who knows.<< His voice drifted off, but his face was heavy with some unexpressed emotion as he played with his feet, twisting his ankles so I could see the worn-down heels on his winklepicker boots. This display of grief, I thought, was not entirely about Jim Morrison, but I didn't want to have to be the one to smooth it over, and make it easy for him.

>>I'm very sorry for your loss<< I said, very stiffly, and perhaps a little short. >>But I have work to do.<<

And then, finally, as if he realised that his time and my patience was running out, he blurted out >>How is Flori?<<

>>He is...<< I started, but then wondered how much I dared to tell him, about the rifts that were forming within Power Station, and how they were affecting my lover. >>He is still Flori, my good old V-2.<<

>>V-2<< repeated Ralf. >>Yes, Emil used this nickname, too. Is it new? What does it mean? I suppose he reminds everyone of a bit of a mad scientist, a von Braun. It suits him.<<

I laughed and flushed slightly, putting my hand over my mouth. >>Well, yes. I started calling him this as a little joke, because... well, because you see, he gives orgasms like atom bombs.<< Ralf flushed, embarrassed, and looked down at his trousers. >>But I think his band call him this, because he is very stubborn, and because you know what he is like when he...<< I had been about to say what he was like when he lost his temper, but caught myself just in time. >>Well. You know what he can be like.<<

I wished I hadn't mentioned Flori's relations with the band, because Ralf looked suddenly rather concerned. >>Is he well, though? Is he happy? Is he still the same old bouncy Flori, looking curiously at the world down that long nose, with that odd, distinctive too-fast gait of his that forces everyone else to trot to keep up?<< His voice tumbled out, all in a rush, full of love and longing and long familiarity.

I closed my eyes and screwed up my face, so I could not be distracted by all the emotions that seemed to come running back. >>Yes, he is still all of those things.<<

>>Good. I'm glad.<< He actually sounded relieved. >>Does he still get... you know, _one large coffee, with cream, not milk, if you please. And a slice of cheesecake, with a spoon not a fork thank you kindly_ , in the afternoon at Cafe Figaro?<< It was almost uncanny, how well he was able to imitate not just Florian's words, but his phrasing, his intonation, the way he always seemed to talk out of the back of his throat.

>>No, these days, we have our tea... well, whatever you Germans call the early evening meal, we eat it at that little cafe around the corner from Mintropstrasse.<<

>>Mintropstrasse<< repeated Ralf wistfully, as if he were talking about Xanadu, and not some dark little side-street between the railway station and the red light district. >>I miss Mintropstrasse. I miss that little studio of Flori's with the eggbox walls and the heavy, vaulted brick ceiling.<<

>>I wouldn't know. I've never been inside it.<< I hoped my voice sounded playful, instead of angry, as I wondered what Ralf was about. It wasn't Mintropstrasse he missed at all, I thought, but I didn't dare say that aloud.

>>Still?<< He sounded surprised. >>So Flori is still secretive as ever, even with you.<<

>>Why are you here, Ralf, what do you want?<< I asked abruptly, not liking the tone he was taking.

>>Because I... Since I returned to Krefeld, I... I...<< It seemed almost impossible for him to spit it out. >>Because I have been lonely, alright? Because I missed Düsseldorf and the stupid engineering school, and the computer lab, and you... And because I missed Flori.<< So there, it was out in the open, as he stared resentfully at the floor rather than meet my eyes. >>I saw Holger in Köln, and he put it best: Flori is the Yin to my Yang. I am out of balance, without my Yin, without Flori. It was OK, when I was living with Claudia. It was not so bad, because as you know, they are very like. But I went to see Claudia this morning, and she was too busy, hanging around with this Hans-Joachim fellow, to pay me much mind. Hans-Joachim doesn't like me; he thinks I'm an arrogant fool because I asked him once or twice to make music with me, and he didn't like how I played. So I come to you, because now, it is you that reminds me of my Flori.<<

>>Your Flori?<< I laughed mirthlessly, then realised that was cruel, as his face crumpled in sadness. >>Ralf. You could always... I don't know. You could always try... apologising to him?<< I said, in what I hoped wasn't a harsh tone.

Ralf looked utterly bereft. >>I don't know that he's ready?<<

>>Or is it you that isn't ready?<<

>>Jan, don't shout at me.<<

I stared at him, surprised. For the first time, he had actually said my name correctly. Not Yon, not Chan, but Jan. >>I'm not shouting. But I can't fix your problems with Flori for you.<<

>>I don't know that I can, either. I don't know that I can fix anything in my life. You see, I've fucked up in so many ways...<< The swear sounded ugly, uncharacteristic and ungainly in Ralf's mouth. Flori swore very casually, for the sheer fun of terrible words like _scheisse_ and _shit_ and _fuck_ , but Ralf's words were always very correct. >>I seem to have fucked up everything in my life right now. Flori, the band, university...<<

>>Ralf, what's happened?<< Suddenly, my heart seemed to lurch, like, after everything, I still cared about what happened to this deeply irritating man.

Finally, Ralf dragged his eyes off the floor, and fixed me with those dark blue eyes, though they were troubled, perhaps even ashamed, the rims of flesh pulling them down slightly at the edges, so that he always looked slightly sad. >>I failed the architectural exam, OK?<<

>>What?<< I sputtered, disbelieving. >>Did you intend to? Was this this some...<< I remembered the way he had told me that Flori had deliberately failed an exam to prove something to his father.

>>No<< he shrugged. >>It took me very much by surprise. I was... careless. I did not study adequately. There were things on the exam, that must have been on the curriculum that were not discussed at the lectures. I skipped the chunks of the textbook I thought I already knew. I never thought to check if they were different. I had never, in my life before, ever been challenged in any way by any technical subject, so I never thought it might even be possible that I could miss something. That I could fail.<< He paused, his face horror-struck. >>I've never failed anything before, Jan. I'm afraid.<<

>>Well<< I said, still trying to get my head around what had happened. >>You're going to be 25 in another month. Maybe it's time you learned.<<

Ralf looked at me resentfully, his lower lip wobbling, until finally he propelled himself to his feet. >>I don't know why I came to you. It was a foolish idea. You have never been the slightest bit kind to me. To Flori, sure. To Myrthe, to Silke, To Michael, to everyone else, but... I don't know why I expected anything from you.<<

Suddenly, I felt absolutely awful. It was like that time in the beergarden near Neanderthal, when I knew I had gone too far. >>Ralf...<< I sighed, as he pushed past me in his haste to hurtle out of the room. >>Ralf, I'm sorry.<< Reaching out, I caught hold of the lapel of his leather jacket. He stopped, and turned to look at me, and I saw his eyes were full of pain, like his heart was breaking. I had misjudged him, yet again. I pulled him closer, and tried to put my arms around him, but he just stood, stiffly, in my embrace. >>Let's go and get a coffee, OK?<<

>>I don't want to be in public<< Ralf said sullenly, and I became afraid he might actually burst out crying.

>>It's OK<< I told him. >>There's a kitchenette down the hall. The Grad Students keep coffee and sometimes biscuits.<< Meekly, his head drooping, he followed me down the hall, and slumped against the counter as I put the kettle on, and filled up the cafetiere. >>Let's go in the lounge, it will be more comfortable there.<<

We walked through into a small, private area that had been set up with two sofas and a coffeetable, and I set the cafetiere and cups down. As I went back to close the door, Ralf busied himself fiddling with the coffee things, as if grateful for something to do. When the coffee was ready, I sat back and studied him carefully.

>>Can you re-sit the exam?<< I asked, blowing on my coffee to cool it.

>>Not until next year.<<

>>That's a long time<< I observed, realising that I already knew this from Claudia's unfortunate dropping out mid-term.

>>I will have forgotten everything... unless I can get a practical course or an apprenticeship in an office.<< He looked almost sick at the idea, though the knowledge popped unbidden into my head, that this was what the odious Flür had told me he was doing.

>>What does your father say?<<

He looked up at me sheepishly from under the thin arches of his eyebrows. >>I have not yet told him.<<

I swallowed nervously, wondering why he had picked on me, of all people, to confess his problem to. But my analytical brain was already trying to pick through potential solutions. >>Can you repeat the course at the university?<<

>>No. You see, I have completed my university degree. I will graduate, with a decent mark. As far as they are concerned, I am finished. It is only the architecture exam, that one must pass to become a licensed architect, that I have failed.<<

>>Well, you see, it's not a disaster. You still have a degree. You could do other things with a degree...<<

Ralf stared dejectedly into his coffee. >>I just feel like I've made an awful mess of my life lately, and I don't really know how to get it back.<< He paused and took a large gulp of his coffee. >>Is Flori still very angry with me?<<

I eyed him carefully, wondering how much I dared to give away. Flori was so private, he hated it when anyone gossiped about him. (Though of course, normally that only made people discuss him more.) >>Flori has... problems of his own at the moment<< I said, I hoped vaguely.

>>You are not...<< His voice drifted off, as if afraid to ask after our relationship.

>>No, not us. We are still very happy together.<< I wondered for a brief moment if I should tell him that we were, I supposed, technically engaged, but then decided against it. >>Things are tense within the band at the moment. I know that Flori is the boss, and it is his band, but Flori is not a natural leader.<<

Ralf frowned, but then shrugged non-comittally. >>Who is?<<

I decided to throw him a compliment, thinking that might lift his spirits. >>Well. Michael told me that you, to my great surprise, had rather good diplomatic skills when it comes to managing musicians.<<

At that, Ralf smiled, the ugly smarmy smirk I disliked. >>It kills you, to have to give me a compliment, doesn't it?<<

I raised my head, and looked at him very carefully, that firmly set jaw, those sloping dark blue eyes, the grim line of his mouth. And suddenly, I saw him, not as an irritating and imperious young man, but as a slightly hesitant, and lost, and rather shy young man, covering up his insecurities with bluster and bravado. >>You're not so bad. Sometimes I...<< I took another gulp of my coffee. >>Sometimes I even miss our friendship. I miss sparring with you.<<

Ralf smiled again, this time the genuine little boy smile that lit up his face. >>Me, too, to be honest.<< But then a longer pause. >>Does Flori miss me? Does he ever even mention me?<<

I took a deep breath. >>For a long time, he didn't speak of you at all. I don't think he knew how. But he has begun, occasionally, hesitantly, to speak of you again.<< Ralf's smile deepened, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. >>Has he missed you? Of course he has. Don't be stupid. Florian has a heart that beats the same as you or I, though he likes to pretend he is a robot about not showing it.<<

Ralf swallowed the last of his coffee and put his mug down on the table. >>I know you told me that you would not help me. But I'm asking you how to help myself. The architectural exam... pffft! I have failed it. I was never cut out to be an architect anyway. But how do I make things right with Flori?<<

I nursed my coffee for a little while longer, turning things over. Was Ralf really as dumb as he was pretending to be? >>You apologise, Ralf. That's what you do.<< I told him, for the second time that afternoon.

>>I don't know how.<<

>>I think you do. I think you are just too proud to.<<

>>Where are you living now?<< asked Ralf, in the swiftest change of subject I had ever seen him instigate. >>I went to the Berger Allee to see Emil, and he told me Flori moved out months ago.<<

>>Up in Golzheim. Flori's father gave us a flat.<<

>>Phew!<< Ralf rolled his eyes. >>Flori's father seems to give everyone flats these days, so I cannot complain.<< I bristled defensively, but Ralf actually noticed this time. >>You really love him, don't you?<<

>>I do.<<

>>Me, too<< sighed Ralf. >>And I have loved him for even longer than you.<< But then, he stood up and brushed imaginary lint off the leather of his jeans. >>But I must go. I am due back in Krefeld for dinner.<<

>>Ralf?<< I called, as he reached the door, and opened it. When he turned around, I saw that his eyes were slightly misty. >>Can I tell Flori that I saw you?<<

Ralf shrugged sort of half-heartedly. It actually hurt me to see him looking so deflated. >>If you like. You must do what you think best.<<

I stayed at the computer lab for another hour, running through another few permutations of my leopard spot algorithm, distorting it into giraffe spots, and zebra stripes, but my mind was not on it. Finally, I gave up and walked to the pay phone at the end of the hall. Flori and I had worked out a system, whereby he knew when to answer the phone in the apartment, as we had not changed the number, and still got calls from business associates of his father - or worse, strange women who hung up when they heard my voice. I rang a first time, let it ring exactly twice, then hung up. Then I waited precisely thirty seconds, timing it with my watch, and rang a second time letting it ring exactly three times, and hung up again. Another wait of exactly thirty seconds, then I let it ring. If Flori was home, he would pick up on the fifth ring.

The phone clicked >>Hello, my Little Mouse.<<

>>Oh, you are there, my V-2. I didn't know if you were there, or at your parents' house.<<

>>No, it is tomorrow that we are wanted for family lunch<< he explained. >>Are you coming home soon? What do you want for dinner?<<

I groaned at the thought that I would have to leave the air conditioned computing centre, and head out into the sticky Rhine air on my cycle. >>It's too hot to eat<< I told him.

>>Then I will make a curry. Curry is the best thing to eat when you are very hot, because it makes you sweat, and then that cools you down. Do you want to pick up some dry white wine to go with it, or would you prefer very fizzy beer?<<

>>I think I want fizzy dry cider.<<

He laughed, and I felt my heart growing all round and full again, like just the sound of his voice could reassure me that the world was an OK place. >>Sounds good to me, too. Get two pints, then. Breton cider yes? It is the best.<<

>>See you soon.<<

The air hit me like a sticky wall of sweat as soon as I left the building, and I had no idea how Ralf could still walk around in those leather trousers. I found my bicycle, and made my way through the weekend traffic towards the Rhine, hoping to catch some cool river breezes, but the banks were too full of people, seeking the same relief. I stopped at a French deli and bought two large bottles of best Breton cider, then cycled home along hotter but less crowded backstreets.

The apartment already smelled like curry by the time I came home, and Flori had all the windows open, so I could smell it as soon as I stepped off the lift. He was cooking in a pair of knee-length shorts, with an apron over his bare chest, looking so adorable that I had to squeeze him and press a bottle of cold cider against his back so that he jumped.

He slapped me away, laughing. >>Pour me one, alright?<<

I poured two glasses and gave him one, looking into his eyes as we clinked our cheers. As I sipped at the cool, dry cider, feeling it fizz down my throat in a rush, I decided to risk it. >>You'll never guess who I ran into today.<<

Flori was in a very silly mood, as he pretended to think, then cocked an eyebrow at me, adopting a comedy French accent. >>The president of France.<<

>>No<< I laughed, enjoying the familiar game.

>>Elvis Presley!<< he shouted wildly, in what he probably reckoned was an American accent.

>>No, but getting warmer.<<

Flori lumbered about, adopting a poetic stance and pretending to be a rock star. >>Jim Morrison?<<

I laughed aloud at that one. >>Very close, but not quite.<<

>>Then you're right, I will never guess so just tell me<< said Flori in the sensible voice that somehow seemed even funnier than his funny voices.

>>Ralf Hütter.<< I said quietly, hoping I sounded nonchalant.

For a moment, Flori and I stared at one another, neither of us quite daring to breathe, but then he gave a very forced laugh. >>Ha ha, now this is the funniest joke of all. Now tell me who you really saw.<<

>>I saw Ralf. He was up at the Engineering School this afternoon. Visiting friends in Düsseldorf.<<

Florian turned away, back to his curry, stirring it animatedly, as if he could take out his emotion on the simmering vegetables.

>>I wondered if he'd come up to see you<< I lied. >>Have you even seen him since he left the group?<<

>>Not once. Though I hear he was staying with my sister in Aachen.<< There was an edge of irritation to his voice, but about what I could not quite tell.

>>He was.<< I decided to come clean about that part. >>I saw him very briefly when your Mum and I went to collect your sister.<<

Flori stayed silent, but the stirring of the vegetables increased in violence.

>>Only very briefly<< I repeated. >>And he asked me not to tell you, because he thought it would upset you.<<

>>That was _thoughtful_ of him. << The angry and hurt tone of his voice indicated that he thought it anything but.

>>Oh, Flori<< I sighed, feeling my courage suddenly desert me, as I put the French cider down. >>If he apologised to you, would you ever forgive him?<<

>>So this is what he comes to you for, rather than coming to me. To get you, my lover, to plead and make his case for him. Rather than having the actual courage or backbone to come to me himself.<<

>>No<< I said carefully. >>I refused to be the go-between. I refused to make his apology for him. But Flori... if the situation were reversed, wouldn't you do the same thing? Wouldn't you come to me first?<<

His face as he turned around was hard, even angry. Though he normally favoured his mother, he looked oddly like his father when he scowled like that. >>No<< he said firmly, perhaps even intolerantly. >>I would be a man about it.<< I suddenly saw Michael's point, about how inflexible Flori became when he was enflamed.

>>You know, things are not so good for Ralf at the moment<< I said very gently. >>He's facing a lot of difficult things, all at once.<<

>>And whose fault is that<< snapped Flori, and from the edge to his voice, I knew he was on the verge of actually losing his temper, so I lowered my voice.

>>...And I think he's very lonely. He needs friends right now. So he came to me as a friend. To talk to a friend.<<

Flori's face looked suddenly very conflicted, like he was fighting with himself over what to say next, but I could not tell what the warring factions were. Was he jealous, that Ralf was having private conversations with his fiancee? Or was he jealous that Ralf had come to me, and not him? Or was it something else, some weird objection of Flori's that I couldn't even hope to understand? But finally, he spoke, though his voice was very tight, constricted somewhere in the back of his throat. >>So what shit is Ralf in now? Another girlfriend that has thrown him over, for being too controlling?<<

I took a deep breath, refusing to rise to that bait. >>He has failed the architectural examination.<<

It was clear from the shock on his face, that was the last thing that Flori had expected. >>Impossible. Ralf has never failed anything in his life. He wouldn't know how.<<

>>I know. That's what he told me. And I think that shock has shaken him up more than just failing the exam. Ralf has had to face the first crack in his self image; the realisation that he might not be perfect.<<

Florian burst into a sad sort of laughter. >>Yes. I do love him, but we both know that Ralf is very far from perfect. This is news to nobody but him.<<

I smiled, not so much at the joke, though it was completely true, but at the other half of the statement. So deep down somewhere, Flori did still love Ralf. >>I just hope that it brings him wisdom, rather than making him bitter<< I said quietly. But as Flori studied me quietly, seeming to turn this over in his mind, I smelled something bitter. >>Oh no, the curry - is something burning?<<

"Shit!" exploded Flori, with what was fast becoming his favourite English word. Seizing the pot, he took it off the heat, lifting the vegetables carefully to try to assess how bad the damage was. >>Please can you do the rice? I'm going to have to decant this onto plates to salvage what I can, as the bottom is burned right through.<<

Forgetting the absent third of our triangle, Flori and I dashed about the kitchen, trying to save what was left of our dinner, the tension forgotten as we worked like a relay team to pull something together out of the half-ruined food. What we managed to eat was actually alright, albeit a little smoky in flavour, but the enamel cooking pot was completely blackened and ruined. We would have to make a trip to the fine department stores of Düsseldorf to replace it, or there would be hell to pay with Flori's father. And somehow, in the midst of all that, we managed to drop the conversational topic of Ralf, and never picked him up again.


	36. Conny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan accompanies Power Station to their recording session with the illustrious Conny Plank, but it soon becomes apparent that the tensions between Florian and Klaus have spilled over into open psychological warfare, with Michael caught in the middle.
> 
> And Jan becomes the first woman ever allowed to set foot in Klingklang - because of course the band need a photographer.

Flori borrowed the family car to drive up to Köln for the recording sessions, though the gear was all going to be packed up into Klaus's van. With a slightly giddy sensation, I rode through into the internal courtyard of the studio on Mintropstrasse, quite convinced that any second Florian was going to change his mind and tell me to wait in the car. But no, he shrugged and gestured for me to follow him, past Klaus's van, up the steps and into the bowels of the building. It was dark inside, and it took a while for my eyes to adjust, only heightening the sense that I was passing into some inner sanctum. We passed through a sort of external storeroom, then through a heavy weighted door into the interior of the studio.

And after all that, I was surprised to find it was just a room. A long, narrow brick room that was, as Ralf had described, lined with eggboxes for sound insulation, with the windows blocked out. It was dark and slightly dank, with the faint mustiness of an industrial building that was not regularly cleaned, and the decided tang of years' worth of marijuana smoke that all musicians' quarters seemed to attain. Michael and Klaus had not even started to break down the musical gear, they were just standing in the middle of the room, looking at their stuff and scratching their heads. So I took my camera out of my bag and snapped a few photographs of the piles of equipment. As I poked about, they started packing things up into boxes and crates, first the drum kit and then the electronics.

Florian seemed to have just accumulated a pile of junk in his corner, a couple of guitars with broken strings, various innards of electronic gadgets I didn't recognise, a broken lamp, a suitcase with its side based in. This, I thought to myself, was what our apartment would look like if the maid didn't come twice a week. But suddenly I cried aloud as they lifted the large kick drum.

>>Hey<< I protested, pulling out a bolt of fabric. >>This is mine. I was wondering where this had gone.<< It was the small batch of computer-generated leopard spot weaving that Silke had sneered at.

>>It's just the right weight for muffling the kick pedal<< Klaus explained, trying to grab it back, but I stuffed it away, back into my bag.

>>Get some towelling. I needed this for my project and I wondered where it had gone.<< I stuffed it carefully into my bag.

Klaus glared at me for a moment, but went back to crating up his drums. I wandered about, but the novelty of being in the studio space had already worn off. Whatever magic they created in this space, it was clearly in the musicians, and not in the walls, though I noticed they had stuck up many of the posters advertising their more recent gigs. Perching on a dirty sofa of unknown provenance, I waited until everything was boxed up, then helped them carry it out to the van. With four pairs of hands helping, we loaded up quickly, and were on the road in half an hour, Klaus and Michael in the van, with Flori and I following in the big Mercedes.

Flori was actually in a good mood, elated at the thought of getting down to work, enthusing about the producer we were going to meet. >>I'm so excited for you to meet Conny. He's really fantastically talented. I'm sure you will like him a lot.<<

I smiled to myself, as 'you will like him a lot' was always Flori's way of saying that he liked someone a lot. >>I'm sure I will.<<

The cars pulled up outside a large, nondescript building in an industrial estate outside Köln. As Klaus and Michael went to the back of the van to start unloading, Flori went to the door and rang the bell. As if someone were expecting us, the double doors swung open, and a fairytale giant emerged, roaring his greetings. >>You're just in time, boys. Flori, you have an uncanny knack for turning up just as soon as I've put a pot of coffee on!<<

The giant - and it could only have been Conny - was a massive wall of a man, at least 195 cm tall, and as broad as a tree, with long, gingery-blond hair and a massive bright red beard. He engulfed Flori in a hug first, slapping him on the back good-naturedly. Now Flori was tall, and had quite wide shoulders, despite his thinness, but Conny made him look like a little boy by comparison. Klaus and Michael were each subjected to the same bear-hug greeting in turn, but he stopped when he saw me, his face creasing into a wide, warm smile.

>>There must be some mistake. You seem to have brought a beautiful lady with you today. I'm Konrad. Whom do I owe the honour of meeting?<<

>>I"m Jan<< I said, blushing as I extended my arms tentatively. After the warmth with which he had greeted the boys, I wanted one of those hugs too. As he swept me up in his embrace, it did not disappoint, almost lifting me off my feet with the ebullience of his greeting.

>>My girlfriend<< explained Flori. >>She's a very talented designer - and also a photographer, so she's come to document the sessions.<<

>>Ooh, just let me fix my face<< said Conny, pretending to pinch his own apple-cheeks and dragging his knuckles through the mop of his gingery hair. >>Ach, no. There is no hope.<< I burst out laughing, immediately warming to both his humour and his casual humility. It was so rare to meet a man who was able to make fun of himself, compared to the pompous seriousness of the Kunstakademie gang. Moving round to the back of the van, he picked up a heavy tube amplifier in each hand as if they were toys, and carried them inside. >>Come through, come through. The sooner everything is unloaded, the sooner we can have coffee.<<

With five of us working together, we managed to unload the van in about fifteen minutes. Klaus locked up, then we trooped through into the small kitchen at the back of the studio to sit down for coffee and a planning session. >>So what is it that you want to work on first?<< he asked, switching in a moment from a silly to a serious and thoughtful mood.

>>I brought the arrangements you asked for<< said Flori, digging in his briefcase for a sheaf of paper. The band had grown used to Flori's unconventional ideas about sheet music, but I wondered how Conny would react to the bars littered half with transcriptions of musical notes for >>guitar<< or >>flute<< and half with strange cartoonish drawings of cacti and boats and spaceships.

But Conny studied it with a sage expression, nodding his head carefully. >>Yes, I see. This is very, very useful.<< The nodding continued as he paged through them, reading the bizarre comics as if they were an ordinary score. >>I can see right away, you will not work to a click track. These three...<< He tapped the lines for guitar, drums and flute. >>You improvise so strongly on these, that I think we will record them live in a room together. Then the electronics, the percussion and the mood-setting tone poems and the like, we will add this in overdubs, yes?<<

Michael nodded, looking quite relieved. >>Yeah, I was going to ask if we could work that way. I need to be able to see, both Flori, and Klaus, while I play. I know Klaus told me at the sessions he did for the first record, you recorded everything in layers, but the three of us... we react so much off each other, we need to be there, in the room together.<<

>>Let me think about microphones<< mused Conny, scratching his beard thoughtfully. >>I've got a couple of Neumanns and some cute little Japanese Audio-Technicas I've been dying to try out. But do you still use that Shure for your flute, Florian?<<

>>I use a small electronic microphone placed in the inside of the flute. I like the way it is so sensitive to my breath<< Flori explained. >>Please don't make me use a pop-guard with a standing mic, it ruins everything.<<

>>I have no intention of making you do anything you don't want to. You know that I work beside you, not above you.<< Conny smiled broadly, and I could see that Flori and Michael were already looking quite happy with the situation, though Klaus seemed less sure.

>>What are you going to mic my kit with?<< Klaus demanded testily. Even in the dark of the studio, he had still not taken his sunglasses off, and I wondered if he was going to wear them all through the sessions.

>>I don't know. I was waiting to see what you'd got. Do you have any preference?<< asked Conny, quite reasonably.

Klaus glowered and crossed his arms defiantly across his chest. >>That's your job, producer-man, not mine.<<

>>Well, let's go and set up.<< But as Conny stood up, he turned to me. >>I'm sorry, this will probably be very boring for you. Would you like to stay, or take a drive into Köln, and come back in a few hours, when it might be more exciting?<<

>>I can't drive<< I said sheepishly. I kept intending to learn, but there was always something else to do, and besides, I didn't really trust Flori as a teacher. >>I can read a book and stay out of your way, if that's what you're asking.<<

At first I felt a bit self-conscious, as I had never been in a recording studio before. Honestly, I thought it would be quite similar to a gig, where the band just set up, the engineer dropped a couple of microphones around the gear, and away they went. But Conny approached it with far more attention to detail, watching carefully as the lads set up, and trying to direct them how best to position their gear in the small studio, so that there would not be too much of what he called "leakage". This, I soon realised, meant that he was trying to get one instrument only on each track, carefully placing microphones away from other instruments, and using large movable felted boards - or baffles - to keep the sound from bouncing around too much. Conny, I noticed, did not have eggboxes all over his walls - he had actually proper foam, which had been sculpted into weird peaks and troughs that resembled the eggboxes a bit superficially.

But he was perfectly happy to share his vast knowledge, when he caught me tentatively poking the foam, to see if it was soft. >>You know what that is for, yes?<< he asked, with twinkling eyes. I shook my head, but remained quiet. His eyes sparkled with the sheer joy of sharing knowledge as he moved over to explain. >>You know sound travels in waves, right, like ripples on a pond? So you know ripples in a swimming pool, if they hit the side of a pool that is straight, it just reflects the waves back exactly as they come in. In sound, that is an echo. With a perfectly flat wall, the echo can be quite loud, and very distracting for the musicians - not to mention my microphones. But if the wall is all rippled and lumpy, the soundwaves hit the wall at slightly different times, and they are bounced back at slightly different times, in slightly different directions. The sound is muffled - what we call baffled - and there is no echo. The room is dead, the only signal you get is the initial signal, the one you want. Ja?<<

My eyes went quite huge and round as I considered this. Of course sound travelled in waves - and in a constricted space, like the passage of the computer lab, it echoed and bounced around until I could hear the click-clack of Ralf's winklepicker boots from half a building away. But it was the same with chemical diffusion patterns put into narrow spaces - a pattern which formed spots on an open space like a wide back would be constrained and echoed into rings in a smaller space like a narrow tail.

>>That's fascinating<< I said, without properly considering my words. >>You see, I have been working building algorithmic models for chemical diffusion patterns in animal pigmentation. You get much the same effect, with overlapping matrices of...<< I saw his face suddenly change, and realised I was saying far too much again. But then he smiled with surprise, as if he had initially taken me for some air-headed blonde girlfriend who needed things explained to her. >>...never mind, it's not very interesting. But this science of sound is very similar to how the leopard got his spots.<<

>>Come here<< he said, beckoning to me as he walked through a pair of heavy double-doors into a small room filled with controls, like the cockpit of an airplane. There was a massive desk in the centre, with two dozen or more of the type of sliding faders that Flori and Michael used on their little 4-track mixing desks, and all around, there were racks and racks of large metal boxes with strange knobs and dials on their faces. >>Sit here if you like<< he directed, pulling up a second chair to the desk. >>I will show you some things you might find interesting.<<

I watched, entranced, as he showed me the various tricks he used to deaden the room, or reduce noise on the various microphone lines. Filters, noise-gates, ring modulators - I recognised some of the terms from Flori and Ralf's chit-chats, but others were new, and completely fascinating.

But I was so caught up in the tiny details of Conny's magical box of electronic tricks that I did not notice the argument start up. Klaus had been very quiet for most of the morning, for which I had mostly been grateful, as Flori was too sensible to actually start an argument over nothing. But slowly, it became apparent that the reason for Klaus's silence was that Klaus, through whatever caprice, was not actually _speaking_ to Flori. Soon, it became absurd, the lengths to which Klaus seemed prepared to go, not to actually acknowledge, let alone engage, his bandmate.

He would pipe up, in a supercilious tone, and say something absurd like >>Michael, would you please tell the flautist to move his fucking effects unit back, as this baffle is too close to my cymbal.<<

Michael, it was clear, did not quite know how to react to this. For the first hour or so, he simply ignored it, as it was obvious that the message was getting through, whether he passed it on or not. But as Klaus's requests became more absurd, Michael hit on the bright idea of being uncharacteristically passive-aggressive, and doing exactly as he was asked, repeating Klaus's demands word for word. Florian, however, refused point blank to play along with the mind-games, and started to get quite obviously annoyed.

>>Klaus, do you remember what you were playing on the rack toms during Cactus, because I'm not sure that Conny has got a microphone close enough to catch it<< said Flori quite reasonably, as Conny was cycling through the drum channels on the mixing desk.

>>Michael<< said Klaus, turning away from Flori. >>Would you mind telling the fucking flautist that I do not play the fucking rack toms on Cactus. I play the floor toms on Cactus, and the rack toms on Gondolier.<<

>>V-2, old pal<< said Michael brightly, and probably with a wider smile than was necessary. >>Our drummer would like me to tell you that he only plays the floor toms on Cactus, and the copulating rack toms only on Gondolier.<<

And this went on for about an hour and a half, as I saw Flori's ears turning steadily more and more red, as he struggled to contain his temper. I knew he respected Conny greatly, and did not want to cause a scene in front of him, but Klaus seemed to be showing no such restraint.

Conny worked fairly quickly, checking levels, setting the controls, then moving on to the next instrument. I had grown very used to the way that sound engineers miked a drum kit at soundchecks, the way Klaus would have to hit his snare or his hi-hat over and over, exactly the same, for two, three, five minutes, as the engineer fiddled with the EQ to get the best sound. Conny seemed to have an almost spooky bond with the equipment, cocking his head and swooping in on the required frequency, his huge hands as gentle on the mixing desk as a lover.

But Klaus was a nuisance. As soon as Conny decided that he was happy with the drum sounds, and wanted to move over to start soundchecking Flori's monumental pile of electronics, suddenly Klaus would do something incredibly stupid, like move his floor tom two inches the left. With a great sigh, Conny would have to get up, walk through into the other room, adjust the microphone to a new position, then go back and start the level check again.

Finally, Conny seemed to cotton on to what was going on, lowering his head and putting his face into his hands as he rubbed his eyes. Then he got up, flipped the monitor speakers off, so that I could not hear the boys in the recording studio, and walked through. I could see through the thick glass of the control room, but I could not hear, as Conny walked over, touched Klaus gently on the arm, and the pair of them started to talk. Conny, clearly, was being very diplomatic, as Klaus actually smiled and looked interested. The pair disappeared out the main door for a few minutes, but when Conny came back, he was alone.

With a satisfied grunt, he shifted himself back into his seat, then turned the monitors on again, and hit the talkback button. >>Right. Florian. Please can you play me your flute clean, without any of the processing on it. Then we'll slowly cycle through your various effects, once we've got a base signal. OK?<<

Florian grinned and nodded, raising his flute to the microphone. I loved to watch him play, the intent look of concentration on his face, the way his lips fluttered and strained against the mouthpiece of the flute. I could never really watch him play like that without thinking of kissing him, thinking of his long, thin, elegant fingers and the melodies they coaxed from the body of the instrument.

>>Florian, can I just stop you for a moment? I'm going to put a mic on you, to try to get a separate signal, one of the clean flute, and one of the distorted flute, with the wah-wah on it, because they play at such disparate volumes. That way we can mix then together again when it comes to mix-down.<< As Flori nodded and gave a thumbs up, Conny dug in a pile of cables and picked up a second microphone from a shelf, then lumbered back through into the recording studio to set it up.

By the time Klaus reappeared, Conny had actually managed to finish miking up Florian, and moved on to Michael, dragging his guitar amps through into a sort of closet of a room to isolate the sound, before hanging a pair of microphones over the top in stereo. As Conny was plugging the cables into a funny sort of electric snake with a multi-outlet head, Klaus burst back into the studio, carrying what looked like almost an entire tree's worth of marijuana fronds, grinning as if he were very, very pleased with himself.

>>These are the best... though they will need to be dried, of course<< he announced, holding up his bounty.

>>Yes, yes, there is a small toasting oven in the kitchen that we use for this very purpose<< Conny agreed, and again, lead him out of the recording studio before he could cause any mischief, though, granted, he was less likely to cause mischief with Michael's gear than with Florian's.

Florian and Michael just looked at each other, exchanged glances, and then burst into laughter. When Conny returned, he finished setting up Michael's microphones and took a line-check as if nothing at all were the slightest bit out of the ordinary. By the time Klaus returned, Conny had finished checking everything, and was ready to start a test recording. To my great surprise, Klaus slipped into his drumstool without a whisper of complaint, and started to count in the song.

>>What on earth did you say to him? It couldn't have just been the weed, he's got bushels of it at home.<< I asked.

Conny winked over his shoulder. >>I just told him that we usually made a batch of hash brownies at the _end_ of a good day's recording, if everything went really well. So he now has an incentive to get through this as quickly as possible, because the more fuss he makes, the longer it delays his reward. Elemental psychology, you see. << He tapped his head thoughtfully. >>I hope he has not decimated the recording studio owner's marijuana bushes too badly as I will have to reimburse him for it, but it is a small price to pay, and he owes me a favour anyway.<< The mood in the recording studio seemed to have lightened, as the three musicians had put on headphones and started to lark about. >>If you want to get good photos, now is probably the best time.<< he advised me. >>I need them to focus when they are actually recording, but a few photos when they are warming up will put them more in the mood of a performance. I think these three, they struggle without an audience to play off. So it is a good thing you are here.<<

I picked up my camera and walked through as quietly as possible. Deciding I didn't want to play favourites, I took photos of Michael first. He was so shy onstage that it was almost impossible to get a good shot of him without that wall of hair in the way, but he had the headphones tipped over one ear, and pushed back on the other side, so that I could get a good shot of his strikingly pretty face. Michael was so boyishly beautiful that in any other band, he would have been the main visual focus, but he seemed oddly cowed by the more dominant characters of Florian and Klaus. He smiled sheepishly at me, a shot I knew would send Myrthe into giggles, but then did his best to ignore me as I hovered about him, snapping his guitar, his gear, that funny habit of wearing bright orange socks with his brown hippie sandals that I knew infuriated the stylish Myrthe.

Then I walked over to Klaus, who saw me coming, and immediately started to pose. Klaus, I knew, was difficult to photograph, not because he wasn't good-looking, but rather, because he was, and he knew it. He was, indeed, a strikingly handsome man, with prominent cheekbones and a jawline that any 1930s film star would have killed for. His thick, wavy blond hair (which I suspected was starting to be accentuated with a bit of peroxide recently) framed his face like a renaissance angel. But he had a habit of sticking out his thin lips in a pout, every time he knew the camera was on him, and it was almost impossible to get a good candid shot of him unless he was so deeply engrossed in his drums that he didn't notice the photographer. I took a few shots of Klaus, but decided, really, I should save my film for when he was less conscious of the camera's eye upon him.

When I turned to Flori, my heart always overcame my designer's eyes. Flori was... well, Flori was so awkward and so strange-looking as he played, his back as straight as a ramrod, his prominent chin thrust aggressively forward. I knew that he was a remarkably striking-looking man, and I thought he was beautiful - as did many people who knew him - but I wondered sometimes, looking at him through the viewfinder, if it wasn't my love that made him so beautiful. He was not rock star handsome in the way that Michael and Klaus were, but there was a distinctness and personality to his face that came across even better in photographs than in person. Even though Klaus acted like he was the rock star in the band, in photos, it was always Florian that one looked at, he had that genuine star quality, a face that once seen, one could never forget. But it was up to me to capture his beauty, the intentness of those silvery eyes, the curve of his cheekbones echoed by his distinctively birdlike, long, straight nose. I hovered about him like a moth, trying to capture his essence, until I could feel the hostility of Klaus's gaze behind me, and forced myself to stop.

They finished their line-check, and stopped playing, holding their headphones to their ears more closely, and I realised that Conny was playing back what they had recorded, so I made my way back to the control booth. Music spilled out of the speakers, deeper and more rich than it had sounded in the room, probably on account of all of the humming glowing machines on the rack, their dials twitching and pulsing in time with the beat. Conny flicked a few faders, noting down settings on a strip of tape along the base of the mixing desk, and the sound became richer still, ramping up the bass frequencies in the guitar, turning down the annoying ping of the hi-hat.

But out in the recording room, Michael frowned. >>It sounds OK on playback, but... when we're playing, it sounds like something is missing. It's very hard to concentrate in here.<<

>>I know what you mean<< agreed Flori. >>It is a very different beast, recording, as opposed to playing live. But it sounds good on the playback, which is what is important.<<

>>This room is dead<< complained Klaus. >>I've done hundreds of recording sessions, and I tell you, this room is dead. It's no good.<<

Conny took a deep breath and pressed the talkback button. >>The room is supposed to be dead<< he explained, very patiently. >>If you had a brighter room, it would sound better when you were in there, but the recordings would come out all muddy. I have to deaden the ambient sound in the room, in order to get the cleanest recording on tape. Trust me, it's for the best.<<

Florian shrugged and nodded, but Michael still looked doubtful, readjusting his headphones so that he had one on and one off again. Klaus looked like he was about to kick off, but then he seemed to remember something and fell silent, settling for only staring daggers at Florian, instead of actually bursting out into open warfare.

>>Do you want to try the first song?<< suggested Conny.

>>Cactus<< announced Florian.

And that was it, Klaus simply could not let it be. >>I don't want to do Cactus first, I'm not in the mood. Let's do something more upbeat to get the juices going. How about Rückstross.<<

>>Cactus is a good warm-up<< said Michael diplomatically, but Klaus was having none of it. They started sniping at one another again, pretending that they were talking about the songs, but really, it soon became obvious that dissing each other's choice of track was really a subtle psychological way of insulting one another. Cactus, it seemed, was soft and effeminate, and dithery, and incapable of holding the audience's attention without the support of other, more important songs around it, while Rückstross was harsh and rude and aggressive and getting ideas above its own station about whose band this really was, after all.

Finally, Conny took a deep breath and pressed the talkback button. >>What about this third song from your demo, Köln 2? Let's do that one, then we can take a break and have a snack, yes?<<

Klaus and Florian detached themselves from one another's metaphorical necks, and settled down to play the track. It turned out, I had a very rosy tinted view of what a recording session was like, probably fuelled by Beatles films and Ready, Steady, Go. In my mind, a song was captured in one take, with everyone standing round the studio like the stood onstage, and maybe only one overdub all round a microphone to do the singing. But, as it turned out, it was an endless, involved, frustrating and overlapping process. They would play the song once, then listen to it back in playback, and then vote on whether to keep that take and try another, or go back over the same tape.

Florian was an obsessive archivist, he wanted to keep every take, and then compare them all at the end to take the best, because tape was never really as good as when it was fresh, the original take always left a faint ghost impression. Klaus, however, had to take the opposite extreme. That was no good, he insisted, it was much better to just rip it up and start again, after all, who was paying for all this very expensive recording tape? Again and again, I saw Conny drop his head, take a deep breath, and press his fingers against his temples, before hitting the talkback button and suggesting a compromise.

Michael seemed very much caught in the middle, but after a few hours, I could see that he was starting to chafe under Florian's obsessive perfectionism. Florian had clearly trained at a classical conservatory, and he wanted every note to be absolutely, clinically perfect. Michael and Klaus, however, had no such training, and had both grown up playing in rock bands, where it was considered to be much better to be looser and sloppier, so long as the spirit of the performance was true and authentic.

And so they argued, for another half an hour, with the clock ticking on the expensive studio and the expensive one-inch tape and the expensive producer, until finally Conny broke in and suggested it was time to have a break for a cup of coffee and maybe some sandwiches.


	37. Psychological Warfare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan soon works out the best way to calm Florian down and defuse tensions in the studio. But will it be enough to stop Power Station from imploding, as Klaus steps up his tricks?

When the band broke for lunch and headed into the kitchen, Klaus started acting like a total prick again. It seemed impossible for him to leave the arguments in the studio, and behave like a reasonable human being. The argument over the tape turned into an argument over coffee, turned into an argument over the best way to slice bread for sandwiches. 

It was always the stupid, petty, deliberate psychological warfare that really got to me, the way Klaus would specifically do the opposite of whatever it was that Florian thought was best, just to wind him up. But it was when his selfishness and refusal to co-operate seemed to expand outwards from Florian, by extension, to me, that was when I lost sympathy for Klaus Dinger. I was no part of their argument, and it irked me to be drawn into it against my will. I had known Klaus for a year, and liked him, even defended him against some of the girls who thought he was a maniac or a druggie. But when he started sniping at me, on account of his arguments with Florian, something changed in my attitude towards him.

After lunch - well, it was a very late lunch - the boys went back into the studio again and tried to pick up the recording process again, starting with the other song, Cactus. Florian was focused, and ready to work, and even Klaus seemed to be trying to get down to business. But this time, it was little Michael that was struggling. I thought he played well - the guitar sounded good in the control room, and the notes were not flat or anything. But he just seemed to be slightly distressed, and unable to settle down.

When the third take was complete, they all trooped through into the control room to listen on the nice speakers. Conny wheeled back and forth on his chair, making adjustments to the mixing desk, then to the knobs on the flickering processing unit, until it sounded beautiful and shiny, like a song played on the radio, instead of a raggle taggle bunch of musicians mucking about at the Creamcheese club.

But Florian frowned deeply. >>Something is missing<< he mused.

>>Well, obviously, we will put in your tone-poems and your percussive effects when we do the overdubs<< Conny suggested.

>>No, he's right<< agreed Michael, surprising me by the force with which he spoke up. >>Something is missing. This song usually... takes off when Flori hits the distortion on the flute, and the drums kick up a gear. It doesn't... take off.<<

Conny rewound the tape, and played the passage again. I couldn't understand what they were talking about. I could hear the moment at which Flori hit the distortion on his flute, and Conny skilfully switched from the clean channel to the distorted channel, so that the sound seemed to leap up, and the drums built up in a steady pounding beat.

But Michael shook his head, and Florian frowned. >>No, it's not right<< persisted Florian.

Michael turned to Klaus, who laid back on the sofa, and hid behind his mirrored shades as he drawled >>I hate to say it, but there's no oomph. No lift-off. It just sounds like a very powerful car on cruise control.<<

>>Isn't that what it's supposed to sound like?<< I asked stupidly.

>>No!<< snapped Florian. >>It is supposed to sound like the desert. Harsh, unrelenting, yet all glittering and dangerous and beautiful.<<

>>It's just so hard, in this dead box of a studio<< Michael sighed. <Without an audience to play off, it's like... I don't know. You know, when we play live, it's so aggressive, so confrontational, it's like riding on the crest of a giant wave, and being thrown forward, I can literally feel the propulsion. In the studio, it's like... it's like what Klaus describes. It's like a very powerful car on cruise control. It never quite kicks off.<<

Klaus smiled slyly, like a rat or a fox. >>Well, what do you expect when you work with the sleek, fat son of a bourgeois businessman with his fancy Mercedes. V-2's money can buy the most powerful car in Germany, but he can't make it run.<<

>>Stop it!<< snapped Florian, climbing to his feet as his face grew very red, and a vein started to throb just on the side of his temple. His voice, when raised, took an an angry, aggressive tone I very rarely heard in him, and it frightened me a little. >>Just fucking stop it with your attitude, Dinger. I'm tired of this shit, this constant snipe, snipe, snipe. Just fucking shut up with this shit! You're in this band, too, if you hadn't noticed, and if there is a problem here, maybe it is your constant fucking sabotage of your friends and your colleagues.<<

I pulled back, surprised by the sudden violence of Florian's outburst. What Klaus had said clearly hadn't been that bad, but as he lay back against the sofa, smirking like he'd won some competition, I realised what was going on. Florian's temper built up slowly, like a gauge filling with water, until it overflowed. If you saw the explosion, but did not see the constant sniping and griping beforehand, it would be very easy to come to the conclusion that it was Flori who was being unreasonable. Because, after all, it was now Flori that was shouting uncontrollably, while Klaus was just lying back on the sofa, as cool as a cucumber.

>>Flori<< I said quietly, and took him by the hand.

>>No, I mean it, Dinger, fucking knock it on the head. I'm tired of this shit...<< ranted Florian, even as I tugged gently at him.

>>Flori, come with me<< I told him, gently but insistently, tugging him by the hand and pulling him out of the room. I didn't quite know the layout of the studio, but I just knew I had to get Florian out of that room, to stop the explosion. Still clutching him by the hand, I pulled him down the corridor, through the kitchen, and out into a little garden I had seen earlier while we were eating lunch. There, behind a wall of bamboo, was a thicket of the marijuana plants that Klaus had been harvesting, and a small stone bench surrounded by pots filled with kitchen herbs. >>Flori<< I said, urging him to be seated on the stone bench. >>Take a deep breath<< I told him.

>>I don't want to take a deep breath, I want to... Christ, I want to murder that blasted little shit with my bare hands, sometimes!<< he sputtered, shaking his head briskly.

I kneeled down on the ground beside him, trying to soothe him and get him to come back to me. >>If you murder him, you will go to jail, and you will not be able to write music in jail, except maybe on the harmonica, like Elvis Presley.<<

That, at least, raised a smile, and stopped the ranting for a moment. It was always better to pull Flori back down with humour, rather than engaging with his anger. >>Maybe I should learn the harmonica, then, because if things don't change, I will murder him, and soon.<<

I touched his face and smoothed his hair. >>Yes, and then I will have to visit you in jail, and bake you a cake with a file in it, and you know I am rubbish at baking.<<

Flori laughed at that, but it was obvious that he was still very angry, as his ears were still completely red. >>I'm not going to jail for that little fucking shit, I mean, he has been at it all afternoon, just constantly, snipe, snipe, snipe...<<

As I laid my head against his lap, I suddenly remembered the absolute best way of getting Flori to calm down once he had started to get carried away with some emotion. Pulling at his belt, I undid the flies of his linen trousers, and pulled his shrunken cock out into the sunlight. He stopped shouting and looked down at me as I bent my head, and took him gently into my mouth, teasing and sucking with my tongue, until I could feel him start to swell inside me.

>>Zhan...<< he gasped, though his hands went to my head, tangling his fingers in my hair. >>Zhan, don't... I... Oh god that feels so nice, but I... I fear you are wasting your efforts, I am too wound up to do you any good that way.<<

I let go for a moment, and smirked up at him. >>Well, my retribution-rocket, we will just keep going until you are relaxed.<<

He let out a great hiss of breath as he leaned back against the bench, all of the muscles in his chest and his face seeming to relax as I sucked harder, hitting a gentle rhythm. He was completely erect now, filling my mouth, as he breathed deeply, his legs going limp and flopping to either side to admit my whole body between his thighs. I could feel the tension going from his muscles, and his face was growing slack, that terrible throbbing vein in his forehead shrinking back to its normal state as his cock bounced around in my mouth.

He fondled my hair, started to massage my scalp, but I could see he was nowhere near coming. Never mind, I thought, and carried on sucking. I dropped down, probably staining the knees of my jeans with green from the grass, but held him firm, my arms around his waist as I sucked and slurped and teased at him with my tongue. Five minutes, I laboured, then ten. No one came chasing after us, but I was terrified that Conny would walk out into the sunlight to see my head bobbing between Flori's thighs, and I would find myself demoted from trainee assistant to air-headed girlfriend again. Ten minutes went by, and Flori's breaths, finally, began to become deep and even and slow, his whole body relaxed, as if his mind was clearing. I shifted again, as my arm was starting to go to sleep, but carried on sucking. At fifteen minutes, he was murmuring my name, his body kind of shuddering and twitching in that way that meant he was completely and wholly engrossed in sex. He still wasn't smiling, but his face was twisting in that kind of ecstatic gurning that meant he was very close to coming.

Twenty minutes, and his whole body was straining towards me, as he clasped my head in his hands, moving me up and down. >>Zhan, I'm going to... is it alright?<<

I nodded quickly, then sucked him so deep that the head of his cock reached almost to the back of my throat, swallowing instinctively as I felt him pumping a thick liquid into me, and then he sat still, panting, and I could tell just by the tone of his breaths that he was smiling.

>>Zhan<< he insisted, tugging at the neck of my shirt. >>Come here. Kiss me.<<

I climbed stiffly to my feet, and sat beside him on the bench, but laughed as he tried to push his tongue into the mouth he had just vacated. >>I wouldn't do that, I don't imagine it will taste very nice.<<

His eyes were suddenly very serious. >>I love the taste of me on your lips<< he said urgently, before pulling my mouth to his, and kissing me, a deep long, searching kiss, that said more about how he felt about me than any words could ever express. Finally, he pulled away, looking down at me with perfect love and perfect calmness in his eyes. >>I don't know what I did to deserve you, but...<<

>>Hush<< I told him, laying my finger across his lips. >>Are you calm enough to go back and finish that session now?<<

He grinned wickedly. >>I don't really want to. I want to pull your jeans off you, and push my face between your legs, and suck your pussy until...<<

>>No<< I said, in my most schoolmarmish voice. >>Not until you go back in that studio and finish the session. You don't get any pussy, until we get home.<<

Now was that the incentive required for my lover to behave. Florian stood up, fastened his trousers, then swaggered back into the studio, stinking of sex, with a massive grin plastered over his face. >>OK. You know, Michael is right. The song is technically fine, but it's lacking its proper spirit. Let's go back and do it again.<<

Klaus glared at him, but Florian's grin was impervious as he walked back through into the recording booth, followed closely by Michael. Klaus turned to glare at me for a few moments, but I ignored him, smiling smugly, and he soon picked himself off the sofa and slunk back to his drumkit.

Swivelling in his chair, Conny turned and gave me a long, hard searching look. I felt myself flush slightly, then wiped my mouth, realising I still had a few flecks of saliva in the corners of my lips, as Flori was often a bit of a sloppy kisser. Lord knows what Conny thought they were, but his own lips soon twisted up in a smile. >>That was very resourceful of you<< he finally observed, and gestured for me to take my place back at his elbow.

They worked straight through the evening, and well on into the night. Conny was trying every trick in the book to get them to feel more comfortable in the studio. He turned the lights down low, he lit some candles, and set some incense smouldering in the corner. He moved the amps, he even moved the drumkit, but it didn't seem to make a difference. Finally, he relented on the drugs-are-for-afterwards policy, and passed a fat joint around the studio, but all that did was make me climb back onto the sofa and fall asleep.

I had no idea how long I slept for, but when I woke, the four of them were gathered around the console again, shaking their heads as they listened to the playback.

>>We've had a long day, and we're all tired<< said Conny quite sensibly. >>Perhaps we should break for the night, and come back to it tomorrow, when we're refreshed, ja?<<

Klaus, at last, seemed to perk up. >>The weed should be dried by now. We can make the hash brownies, at last, huh?<<

>>You do what you like<< said Florian, bending down to rub his nose against mine. >>I'm going to take my sleepy missus back to Düsseldorf.<<

\----------

Late the next morning, when we woke up, Flori looked at me plaintively as I pottered about, collecting my things. >>You are coming to the studio with us today, yes?<< he asked, in such a desolate little voice I honestly felt torn.

>>I can't sweetie.<< I bent down to kiss the top of his head as he sat up in bed. >>I promised Silke and Myrthe that I would be in the Atelier today. I have a job, too, you know.<<

Flori looked slightly bereft. >>Tomorrow?<< he asked, seizing me by the belt loops and pulling me towards him. Already, he had the top button of my flies undone and had pushed his nose inside my pants, inhaling deeply, as if trying to catch the scent of me.

With every ounce of self control I possessed, I pushed his head away and re-buttoned my flies. >>Maybe Thursday. We'll see how much we get done.<<

>>I could get so much done to you right now<< promised Florian, his long, elegant fingers undoing my good work and willpower. >>Come on, I'll be quick. You promised last night.<<

I could never say no to Flori. Another minute, and I was underneath him; though, as he promised, he was quick. Florian did things to my body, and to my mind, that could take me from uninterested, to reeling in orgasm in about five minutes. I held him afterwards, panting breathlessly, trying to catch my breath as I kissed his hair. >>Come on, let me go to work now. And good luck, OK? And don't fight with Klaus too much. If he winds you up... well, just remember what I did to you in the garden, and think about that until you calm down.<<

That made Flori grin salaciously, licking his thin lips as if he were ready to just go again, right then. >>I would like it better if you were there, to take me into the garden to calm me down in person.<< I could remember the days when Florian claimed he was uninterested in sex! That had been a good one; right up there with _Florian doesn't like to talk_.

>>Tonight, if you've got a good take down of Cactus, I promise<< I teased, dressing and grabbing my keys, but the look he gave me nearly made me turn around and come straight back to bed. >>I will see you later.<<

Compared to the tensions while Power Station worked, my own Atelier was a positive oasis of calm, even while Silke fussed and fretted that we were never going to finish the Autumn / Winter collection in time. Even when things got heated between us, I was quite relieved that things never seemed to degenerate to the personal level that Klaus and Florian's arguments reached.

Florian was in a sombre mood when he returned, late that night, stomping about the apartment so heavily that he woke me without really meaning to. I got out of bed and padded over to find him sitting out on the balcony with a whole bottle of his father's scotch, staring out over the darkened city with a dark expression on his face.

I put my hands on his shoulders and tried to rub the tension away. >>Do you want to talk about it?<< I offered. He shook his head briskly. >>Do you want a blow-job, then?<<

That raised a smile, but he still shook his head. >>No.<<

>>Do you want a new band?<< I teased, rubbing my hands down the knobs of his spine, feeling how tense the muscles were.

>>No<< he sighed. >>I want my old band.<<

I bent my head down towards him, and touched my cheek against his, and he reached up and pulled me towards him, clutching me close. I held him for several minutes, then I took the bottle of scotch away from him, and put it back in the cabinet in his father's office. I had very rarely seen Florian drunk; he tended to have just one glass of wine or so, no more than enough to make him tipsy. But at that moment, I was a little bit frightened. Having seen him angry now, I did not want to see him at the wrong end of a bottle of scotch.

Instead, I went inside and made a pot of herbal tea, camomile and lavender and mint, things to make him sleep. I had to plead with him to get him to the put the tape of the day's recording on the hi-fi, but finally he dug it out of his rucksack, and put it on.

It was odd to listen to, because in so many ways, it _sounded_ so good. The drums sounded big and boomingly strong, capturing exactly the power of what it felt like to be standing in a room with Klaus going absolutely mental on the kit. The guitar sounded warm and lush, with that confident prettiness that Michael could capture in music in a way he was too shy to embody in real life. And the flute... Conny had really done wonders with the flute, capturing every nuance and breath, so that the Florian breathing on the tape sounded almost more real than the man sighing at the foot of the bed.

But he was right. There was something missing, though I could not have told you what it was. I knew what this song was _supposed_ to sound like, having heard it live maybe a dozen times over the past 6 months. But the thing captured on tape was dead and lifeless, bearing about as much resemblance to their live shows, as a butterfly on a pin in a dark museum looked like the glittering, iridescent insect floating across a summer meadow.

>>You hear it, don't you<< sighed Florian, lowering his head and resting it against my legs. >>It's not right.<<

>>No, it's not<< I agreed, though I hated to admit it, I just could not lie. >>Maybe you guys have been working too hard. Maybe you need a break. Send Klaus off to Norway to visit his girlfriend, and you and me, we could borrow your dad's house in the South of France...<<

>>I don't think it will do any good<< sighed Florian. >>I think it's just us. I don't think we work. Like... me and Ralf and Klaus, that worked OK. And me and Michael, that works OK. And Michael and Klaus, that works OK. But...<< He let his voice trail off, like he didn't even need to tell me. Florian and Klaus, that was one of those personality conflicts so fundamental that it was never going to work. >>I mean, if you want a holiday, maybe that would do you good. I could ask my father. But Power Station...<< His voice drifted off.

>>Think about it, OK?<< I told him, reaching down to tousle his hair, which had grown so long it had started to creep down across the collar of his shirt. Flori leaned into my caress, like a cat nuzzling its head against my hand.

I couldn't face going in with them the next day, and I think Florian was actually ashamed to ask. Although I was present in body in the Atelier, finishing off a soft, heather-coloured wool fabric as Silke and Myrthe bickered quietly over the cut of the collar of the jacket it was destined for, my heart was miles away, in an industrial estate outside Köln. Myrthe had been teaching me to sew with the large, electric sewing machines, so that I could help with the assembly of the clothes when time got tight. So when I was done with the tweed, I had taken the small bolt of ridiculous, fuzzy, computer-generated leopard print and was trying to turn it into a coat for Flori. Sleeves, I hadn't quite got the hang of yet, so I put an edging of silken cord around the base, the arm holes and the collar and called it a vest. The steady whirr and bump of the mechanical sewing machine was oddly reassuring to me, working with my whole upper body, as well as just fingers and hands as I pushed the fabric this way and that.

We had all been working steadily for several hours, when abruptly the door slammed downstairs, so loud that we heard it even over the tinny blare of the transistor radio. Myrthe and I froze, and looked at one another, afraid.

>>You locked the door behind you, yes?<< she whispered, as we could all hear someone moving around down there.

There was a loud crash, like a heavy weight being dropped, and then another pair of footsteps entered the flat. >>Should we call the police?<< I asked, casting a glance towards the telephone.

>>Too late for that. They are already inside.<< Silke moved boldly to the cutting table, and picked up a fiendishly long pair of scissors. >>Look, you're stronger than me. You grab that<< she directed, nodding towards the small axe we used to chop up wood as kindling for the coal stove. Myrthe picked up the broom handle, and together, armed to the teeth, we crept down the stairs after Silke.

But when we emerged into the living room, expecting to confront burglars, there was only Michael, standing in the centre of the room, surrounded by his equipment. The other pair of footsteps grew closer, then there was another loud crash as Klaus flung the other guitar amp at his feet roughly.

>>That's the last of your gear<< snarled Klaus, then cast a filthy look back towards me. >>I'm going. The stench of Schneider-Esleben's spunk in here is too overpowering.<<

>>What happened?<< I whispered, barely daring to breathe as Klaus stalked out, slamming the door shut behind him.

>>Conny sent us home<< said Michael quietly, though that didn't even begin to answer the questions I had.

>>Why?<< I asked.

>>We weren't getting anything accomplished... and Klaus and Florian... well, you know Klaus and Florian. I think Conny was afraid when they started actually coming to physical blows, and he didn't want them scrapping in the studio with all of his gear.<<

>>Shit<< I swore. >>Is Flori alright?<<

>>Yeah, physically he's OK. Conny's strong enough that he managed to separate them before there was any damage, but the band...<< Michael looked genuinely shaken, so much so that Myrthe went to him and put her arms about his slight shoulders. >>I don't think I want to be in that band any more, even if Flori hadn't sacked us.<<

>>Flori sacked you?<< I stuttered. >>Never! He loves your playing, he thinks you're the best guitar player in the whole of the Rhineland.<<

>>Well, technically, I think that Klaus quit first. It was hard to tell with the drum stool flying across the room. But after there was blood drawn, Flori said he never wanted to play with either of us ever again.<<

>>Blood?<< I sputtered. >>I thought you said no one was injured.<< I walked over and picked up my carpet bag, wondering if I should go back to Golzheim, or check the hospital first.

>>It was barely a scratch. Little injured except Florian's pride - which we all know is monumental<< Michael insisted, as Myrthe pulled away and looked at him, shocked. >>But I... I... I can't be in that band any more. It's too extreme. You know, I am a very peaceful person. I am committed to non-violence. But that environment... I cannot cope with this open psychological warfare.<<

>>They weren't that bad<< I tried to protest.

>>Jan<< said Michael. >>They are _much_ worse when you are not around. You know that I did my National Service as a conscientious objector, so they sent me to work in a psychiatric hospital, as a nurse, yes? It was part of my job, as one of the younger men, to restrain patients when they became violent. But in all my years working with actual crazy people, I have never seen anyone as deliberately, viciously, out of control as Klaus and Florian when they argue. << Words seemed to fail him as he moved across the room. >>I think I want a drink.<<

>>Where is Flori now?<< I demanded, wanting to hear this story from the horse's mouth, so to speak.

>>He is still at Mintropstrasse. All of Klaus's gear was up at Conny's studio, but he refused to give the keys back. So Flori has gone to wait there for the locksmith to change the locks.<<

>>Oh Christ<< I sighed, and picked up my bag and left. I felt for Michael, as obviously it had been a very traumatic final fight that had destroyed the band. But he, at least, had Myrthe fussing over him and preparing him a glass of medicinal schnapps. But Flori... Flori was hurt, and angry and alone. And that scared me. I ran for the bus stop, and caught the first coach headed for the train station.

I was lucky; as I ran down Mintropstrasse, I could see that the gate to the internal courtyard was open, so I nipped inside, and spotted the locksmiths' van. Taking a deep breath, I charged up the steps and tapped urgently on the door. A surprised locksmith swung it slowly open, though now I could see that there was not actually handle on it while he was working.

>>Flori?<< I called out, pushing my way into the sanctum.

>>I'm here.<< He appeared, looming out of the darkness, and I threw my arms around him, just grateful to see him walking about.

>>Oh my god, I was so worried. Let me see you.<< Drawing back, I touched his face gingerly, noting an ugly bruise blossoming on his cheek.

>>It's nothing, it's just a scratch<< Flori insisted bravely, though when he raised his hands, I saw that they were all scratched up, as if he had deflected some kind of attack.

>>Have you been to the hospital?<< I demanded.

>>There's no point. It was more important to change the locks so that... that maniac could not... well.<< Florian made a distasteful face. >>All of my stuff is safe at Conny's, but I still have some of Michael's gear, his spare amp, some of his effects units. I said I would deliver them to the apartment.<<

>>Michael's pretty shaken up<< I told him. >>Did you really sack him?<<

Flori frowned harshly. >>I can no longer work with that maniac Dinger. After everything that I - and my family - have done for him, for him to physically attack me like that... No. It is adding injury to insult. Klaus and Michael still wish to continue to work as a team. Now Michael is a very fine musician, but I can not continue to work with anyone who works with that Dinger. The band... it is over.<<

>>Flori...<< Under any other circumstance, I would have urged him to reconsider. Klaus and Michael were too good a rhythm section to let go that easily. But then I saw the bruise on Flori's cheek again, and raised my hand to gingerly touch it. Flori caught my hand, and held it against his cheek, then kissed it tenderly.

>>The music is not working<< he said quietly. >>If the music were working, I would bear it. I would put up with it, I would grit my teeth and put Klaus into a cage to do his bits, like the animal he is. But the music. It just... is not working. Klaus and Michael are going off one way, and I seem to be going another. I'm tired of feeling like an outsider in my own band. I make music to be...<< He grasped for words that would not seem to come. >>...to be _understood_. They are talented musicians, yes, but I do not think that they understand me. If they did, the music would be working. And it is not. <<

I put my arms around him and hugged him, again and again, but I didn't know what else to do. The violence, obviously, had shaken him. But oddly, it seemed that it was the failure of the music that had completely destroyed him. I sat with him on the musty old sofa, and held him until the locksmith finished working. The man came through into the main room of the studio, and held out a new set of keys, and Florian got up to go and check them, listening to the man's instructions before he dug in his rucksack for his chequebook, and paid him for his labour.

>>Is that it? Shall we go home?<< I asked.

Florian stood in the doorway, looking back over the large, now half-empty room, his face troubled. >>I don't think I want to go home. I think I need a drink.<<

>>Altstadt?<< I suggested. >>It's wunderbar at the Wunderbar.<<

That raised a tiny hint of a smile. >>Maybe we'll go and see what's going on at the Creamcheese Club. Eberhard or Charlie or... someone might be playing there. Some jazz would soothe my nerves.<<

>>Alright<< I agreed. >>But not too late. Do you have the car, or do we have to take the bus?<<

He shook his head. >>My mother wanted the family car today. So I had to take the train back from Köln, rather than get in the van with Dinger. With the rush hour traffic, I was lucky and got home before him.<< He smiled wryly. >>But it's nice weather. I think I'd like the walk.<<

I knew the way well enough, by bus or by cycle, but it was odd to walk, though it didn't take as long as I expected. But Florian, it seemed, needed to move when he felt troubled. He walked very fast, and quite upright, but I kept up with him easily. And as we walked, he seemed to grow less and less angry, loosening his load as he lengthened his stride. We passed through empty backstreets, and crowds of merry-makers spilling out of bars and restaurants, passing from the newer neighbourhoods into the narrow streets and tall old buildings of the Altstadt. Although we avoided the street of the Atelier, and Michael, we eventually popped out of an alley just opposite the Creamcheese club. Already there was a bit of a crowd gathered outside, so perhaps Flori was right, and there was a band on.

 _Ibliss_ , declared the poster on the front door, and Flori nodded. >>Oh, I know them. Ralf and I used to be in a band with one of them, a long time ago now. We made a terrible record together - I might play it for you some time - but we had a lot of fun in those days.<< He sighed deeply. >>It would be good to remember when music was fun.<<

>>I'm game<< I told him, as I paid the cover charge for both of us. The doorman no longer even bothered asking me for an ID, and waved the two of us inside. >>What do you want to drink?<< I asked, as we walked together towards the bar.

>>No, it's my treat<< insisted Flori. >>You paid the door, so I buy the first round.<<

>>What are you drinking?<< I asked, laying my hand on his chest affectionately.

>>Whisky, I think.<<

>>Well, I want a gin and tonic.<< We were so deep in conversation that we barely noticed a young man standing next to us at the bar until he turned around. I caught sight of him in the mirrors behind the bar, and froze. Long, greasy brown hair. Horn-rimmed glasses. A white long-sleeved cotton shirt, and leather trousers, even in the warmth of summer. No, it couldn't be... I turned very slowly, just as he turned to look at us. >>Ralf.<<

His whole face turned even whiter than I thought possible, but to give him credit, he stood his ground, though I probably would have run away shrieking in the same situation. He swallowed nervously. >>Hallo Chan<< he said, then swallowed again. >>Hallo Florian.<<

Florian said nothing, but I felt the muscles of his chest tighten, as his ears started to turn very bright red. I smiled tightly, and nodded my head in greeting, but couldn't think of a thing to say.

Ralf smiled back, tension rippling across his square jaw. But finally, he seemed to force himself to speak. >>May I buy you both a drink?<<


	38. Jan, I'm Only Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf and Florian are reunited, and finally, they are forced to confront their feelings for one another, and the sexual tensions that nearly wrecked their working relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read [When Flori Met Ralfi](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5706724/chapters/13146691) yet, that might fill in a lot of the back story between Ralf and Florian.

Florian still said nothing as he stared at Ralf, his chest moving up and down very slowly, and his breathing was laboured. I had no idea what to do, just standing at the bar of the Creamcheese club staring at him, but it was growing more and more awkward as neither of us replied. >>Yes, of course<< I finally said, in a rather artificially bright tone. >>That would be very kind. Flori is having a whisky and soda, and I am having a gin and tonic.<<

Nodding, as something approaching both fear and relief crossed his face, Ralf attracted the bartender's attention. >>Yes, I will have a whisky too, I think.<< He relayed the order to the girl, then resumed his study of us. >>You look good<< he finally said, though I couldn't tell if he meant me, or Flori, or both of us.

>>Thank you<< said Flori, in a very thick voice, raising his hand to touch his bruise self-consciously.

>>What happened?<< asked Ralf, turning to pay as the girl brought our drinks.

Flori shrugged awkwardly. >>A small... disagreement, at the last Power Station recording session.<<

>>I see.<< The edge of a smirk crossed Ralf's lips. >>And how is Power Station?<<

Florian looked down at his feet, his face very dark indeed, as if realising for himself, what it was like, to fail, very flagrantly and publicly. >>Power Station... is no more.<<

Slowly, a smile spread across Ralf's face, not that awful nasty smirk, but his mischievous little-boy smile. >>Nah<< he said, quite confidently. >>That can't be true. As long as there is a Florian Schneider-Esleben, there will continue to be a Power Station, until the earth falls into the sun.<<

Florian actually laughed, and reached across the bar to take his drink. Ralf pushed it towards him, and their hands met, on the glass. >>If you say so.<<

>>Shall we...<< I suggested, looking back and forth between the two of them. >>Shall we all go and get a booth? It might be more private?<<

>>OK<< agreed Flori.

Ralf beamed like an unattractive girl asked to dance at the prom. >>I'd like that.<< Together the three of us made our way over to a darkened booth, and sat, me and Flori on one side, and Ralf on the other, watching us with a slight edge of nervous excitement. For a few minutes, the three of us just sat in silence, sipping our drinks, but finally Ralf seemed to be collecting his courage together to say something. >>I...<< he started, but then his voice failed him, and he took another sip of whisky. >>I'm... I'm...<<

I realised, all of a sudden, what he was finding so difficult to say, and smiled my encouragement at him. >>You can do this<< I mouthed across the table.

Ralf sat up straight, took off his glasses and pushed his greasy hair out of his face. >>I am sorry<< he said, at last, very loudly and very clearly.

>>OK<< said Flori, and took another sip.

Encouraged by this, Ralf leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and raising his eyes towards Florian. >>I am sorry I wrote you that awful letter. I didn't mean any of it, not really, I was just trying to hurt you because I was so hurt myself. And I am sorry that I quit Power Station. That was... that was petty of me.<< Then he raised his drink to his lips and took a deep draught.

Florian nodded, lowering his chin and bringing his shoulders up about his ears. >>I, too, am sorry<< he finally said, quietly, but his voice was gathering speed, as it all came out in a rush. >>I am sorry I wasn't honest with you, about my feelings for Zhan. I am sorry that I didn't tell you sooner how attracted I was attracted to her - though in my defence, I was not certain of my attachment myself, and even less sure of hers - and I am sorry about the timing with which we acted on it. I am very, very sorry that our getting together hurt you so much. But I am not sorry for our love, and I am not sorry that we are together. I will never, ever regret that decision, but I do regret that it caused you pain.<<

Ralf and Florian looked at each other, across the table, and the air about them seemed to become electric. But finally, Ralf reached out, and extended his hand, holding it in mid-air, just above the drinks. For a moment Flori just looked at, but then he smiled, and extended his own hand, taking it in greeting, and shaking, as the pair broke into broad smiles.

>>I still love you<< blurted out Ralf, abruptly, picking up his glass and holding it out towards his friend. >>I never stopped. It wouldn't have hurt so hard, if I didn't love you so much. It's like you are Yin and I am Yang and I don't work without you.<<

>>I love you, too<< agreed Florian, and picked up his own glass and clinked it against Ralf's, then raised his eyebrows to make one of his excruciating puns. >>It's more like you are _Kling_ and I am _Klang_ and sound does not work without both of us. <<

And they drank, still looking deeply into one another's eyes.

>>So<< said Florian, at last. >>How was Aachen?>.

>>Ach<< replied Ralf, clearing his throat in an ugly noise. >>A terrible mistake. I suppose you have heard I have failed the architectural exam.<<

I reached out across the table, and patted his hands reassuringly as Florian nodded. >>And how did your father take that?<< he asked.

Ralf shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant, the edge of a smile crinkling his deep blue eyes. >>He was furious, of course. But can you imagine me, an architect?<<

>>Not really, no<< giggled Florian into his drink.

>>I informed my father that I had obtained my degree to satisfy him, but we are quits now. I have no intention of being an architect. Now, or ever. My calling is music, I wish to be a professional musician.<<

Florian smiled slyly. >>So how goes that? DId you find any musicians to play with, up in Aachen?<<

>>Not really, no<< confessed Ralf, tipping his head coyly to one side, like he was flirting. >>I played with a couple of bands, jammed here and there, but none of them really impressed me.<<

>>Oh no?<< Florian took another sip of his drink, raising his eyebrows at Ralf.

Ralf shook his head. >>I need to play with people who can express their personalities through music. People who do not just want to duplicate the current fashions in American and English rock or jazz. I need to play with people like... well, like Power Station.<<

>>There is no longer a Power Station. I don't have a band any more<< Florian shrugged.

Both of them sipped at their drinks, as silence descended over the table.

>>You know...<< Ralf ventured, very slowly and cautiously. >>You could, if you wanted.<<

>>Could I?<< laughed Florian, spreading his arms to take in the Creamcheese Club, the jazz band playing faintly for the crowd at the opposite end of the hall. >>What musicians are there left in Düsseldorf, that would still want to play with me, with my flute feedback and my weird air-raid noises and the old, _Florian, don't be absurd, take that instrument off your knees, that is not how you play a guitar_? <<

Ralf looked down into the ice cubes at the bottom of his drink, his long eyelashes brushing his plump cheeks. >>I would.<<

>>You<< said Florian carefully.

Finally, Ralf raised his eyes and looked at Florian, his face brimming over with nervousness and hope and tenderness, where once there was only brash, arrogant confidence. >>I have still never met anyone who can play quite like you can. Who can play, not just with technique and competence, but with genuine soul. I have never met anyone who can _communicate_ , like you do, with just a flute and a pile of electronics. If you would have me, I would play with you again, in a heartbeat. We were a good team.<<

>>We are a good team. Do you know how many copies our record sold? Did they tell you?<< Pride crept across Flori's bruised face.

>>No. Tell me. How many?<< A conspiratorial smile grew on Ralf's lips.

Florian leaned forwards, raising his eyebrows. >>Sixty thousand.<<

For a moment, I gasped, wondering if I'd misheard, but Ralf smiled with pure pleasure and whistled. >>Phew! We _are_ a good team. It would be foolish to waste such a productive partnership. We should make music together again. <<

Florian smiled, his whole face slowly breaking apart in a warm and grateful grin. But then he just couldn't resist the urge to pun. >>Kling?<<

But Ralf smiled soppily and tilted his head to one side, like he had missed those terrible puns. >>Klang<< he completed.

For a moment, they stared at one another, but then Florian turned to me, his eyes searching, for permission, for encouragement, I didn't know what. But I smiled nervously, bit my lip a little, then kind of shrugged to say that it was his decision, not mine. He looked down at my drink, which was about an inch higher than theirs, which were almost finished, so I picked it up and downed it in one gulp. Flori ginned and nodded, then turned back to his friend.

>>Ralf<< he said brightly. >>We've finished our drinks here. Do you want to come home with us?<<

Ralf's whole face lit up like a little boy who had just been asked to join a football team. >>Where are you living now?<< he asked, then swallowed the rest of his drink, half-melted ice cubes and all.

>>Up in Golzheim. But not at my parents house... we have our own apartment, on the top floor of a hochhaus. You will like it a lot.<< He finished his drink, and stood up, extending his hand towards me, pulling me to my feet. >>Come with us.<<

Ralf didn't have to be asked a third time. He clambered to his feet and followed us out like a puppy, bounding out ahead of us as we walked down the street, hand in hand. >>Shall we get a cab?<< he asked.

>>Yes, why not<< laughed Flori, striding out into the road and looking up and down. Across the road, he saw a taxi discharging its passengers to come into the Creamcheese Club, so he flagged it down, and we climbed in.

>>So what happened to your face? Are you ever going to tell me?<< asked Ralf, when we were ensconced inside.

>>Klaus threw a drum stool at me<< he shrugged casually, as if it were an every day occurrence.

>>That maniac!<< said Ralf. >>I always thought he'd be arrested for jumping a copper, or something. What did you do?<<

>>What do you think I did? I sacked him.<<

>>You<< laughed Ralf. >>The most conflict-avoidant pacifist Flori, you actually sacked someone. You always used to make me sack people.<<

>>I've changed<< said Flori. >>I think I've grown up.<<

>>So have I, a little<< agreed Ralf. >>Maybe it was for the best that we spent some time apart.<<

>>Maybe<< shrugged Flori, leaning back and tousling my hair.

>>Sixty thousand?<< repeated Ralf, with the edge of disbelief creeping into his voice.

>>Sixty thousand<< confirmed Flori.

We reached the apartment block, and Flori and Ralf had a brief discussion over who was going to pay for the cab, before they decided to split it. Arm in arm, Flori and I walked up to the curb, but on impulse, I held my other hand out to Ralf. Bounding up to me, he took it, and three of us walked into the building together.

>>Well, this is swish<< said Ralf as we rode up in the lift, checking his hair in the mirrored wall.

>>My father designed it. It is quite nice<< said Flori, with his typical dry understatement.

>>The view!<< exclaimed Ralf, as we stepped out of the lift into the little garden. >>So this is what sixty thousand records buys you!<<

Flori shook his head. >>Nah, I told you, it belongs to my father. I spent the money from the band on buying more synthesisers.<<

>>Of course you did.<< Ralf looked at Flori with a soppiness approaching adoration. >>I would, too.<<

>>And a vocoder<< Flori added somewhat sheepishly.>>That... does not work so well. In fact, it is completely broken, as I took it to pieces and could not get it back together again properly. But I am working on it.<<

>>Of course you are<< agreed Ralf, his face radiant.

In summer, it was much nicer to walk around the flat on the balcony, and go in through the side door. Florian picked up the post, which the maid had left on the mat, and sorted through it, as Ralf wandered up and down the balcony, trying to spot various Düsseldorf landmarks in the distance. Most of the mail was junk mail, or various architectural journals addressed to Paul, but there was one large manilla envelope addressed to us both.

>>Come through<< I offered, opening the door and letting Ralf inside, quite proud to show off our new, adult home. >>It's all open plan, see? Very modern. The kitchen is through here, would you like a drink? I think we still have some whisky, and even a little coke, though it might be a bit flat.<<

>>Whisky and coke would be nice<< Ralf agreed, poking his nose into things, looking through the fridge, opening the cupboards as if he were inspecting everything. Another lifetime ago, this behaviour would have irritated me intensely, but now I recognised it for what it was - just Ralf's insatiable curiosity about the world. >>I like it<< said Ralf, nodding his satisfaction at the flat. >>It's just the perfect size... and no housemates, which is a big plus.<<

>>This is true.<< I handed him his drink, as Florian just giggled.

>>Yes, my sister says you are an untidy and annoying housemate, too.<<

I shushed him before Ralf could protest, and continued the guided tour. >>This is the living room, I guess. Though it all flows into the bedroom...<< I gestured towards the bed, where Flori had already kicked off his shoes and lain down, frowning intently at the letter. >>Do you want to put some music on? We inherited a fantastic hi-fi from Flori's Dad. Though I, uh, bought the cassette player for Flori for his birthday. It's Phillips, it's plays hi-fidelity Chrome tapes. The sound quality, even Flori approves of, and you know what he's like.<<

Ralf picked up a cassette, reading the cover intently, the track names scrawled in Conny's handwriting. >>Is this the new Power Station material you were working on?<<

I took the cassette away from his prying fingers. >>Yes, but that one is no good. They didn't like the mixes.<<

>>Conny was producing, yes?<< probed Ralf curiously, picking up another.

>>Yes, but they just didn't think it was any good. Flori, where are the rehearsal tapes from last week? Those were much better. I want to play Ralf that version of Cactus, which is much prettier...<< I dug through the pile until I found the right one, rewound to the beginning of the song, and then hit play.

Ralf smiled as the music flooded the room, and nodded his approval. >>Oh, Flori, you always were a superb melodicist.<< But Flori was too absorbed in the letter to even notice the compliment. >>What are you reading, anyway?<<

Lowering the papers, Florian looked up at me with an odd expression. >>It's from the lawyers. The Pre-Nuptial agreement, as hashed out by our fathers' lawyers.<<

>>Pre...<< stuttered Ralf, as his face suddenly flickered with with a pall of pain. >>Pre-nuptial? Are you two getting... you're getting _married_? <<

Really, I should have just sat down next to Flori, put my arm confidently and proudly around his shoulders and said yes, but the look of pain on Ralf's face nearly broke my heart. Moving towards him, I rubbed my hand up and down his upper arm in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. >>Ralf, we _have_ to. My visa was only for a year, it runs out at the beginning of September. I have to marry, if I want to stay in the country. And I want to stay here, to be with Flori. <<

>>I see.<< Ralf turned, and walked away from us, off towards the window, looking out over the back of the sofa towards the view. Feeling vaguely disloyal, I wanted to go over and somehow reassure him, but I knew my place was with Flori. So I sat down on the edge of the bed, and put my arm around him. Flori nuzzled his head against my arm, and deposited a kiss on my bare elbow, so I looked down, and tangled my fingers in his wiry hair, pushing it back out of his face. But after a few minutes, Ralf wiped something from his face, and turned back around towards us. >>I'm sorry. I'm being a jerk. I should congratulate you. It's just... it's just a shock, that is all.<< He shrugged, and then pushed his fingers into the pockets of his tight leather jeans.

>>I know... whoever thought?<< I laughed lightly, pulling Flori closer and squeezing him affectionately. >>Flori, who doesn't like sex; and me, who doesn't like boys. Married.<<

Ralf studied us carefully, tangled together on the bed, the casual intimacy of our embrace betraying how our lives and bodies had just grown together. >>Do you love her, Flori<< he said softly. >>Do you really love her?<<

Flori cleared his throat, that strange guttural punctuation they both shared. >>I love her. And I am _in love_ with her. It took me a long time to realise that they are not the same thing. You know how confused I have always been by these matters. One is about the heart, the other is about the body. I feel both, for Zhan. <<

Sipping nervously at his drink, Ralf swallowed hard. >>You never used to like having a body. You never liked sex. That was what you always told me. You just didn't understand it, weren't interested in it. What changed?<<

Florian nuzzled his head closer against my chest, looking suddenly very forlorn. >>I have always known I wasn't _wired_ like other men. I never used to understand, how men would look at a pretty girl, and say 'oh, I want to go to bed with her.' I could certainly appreciate her aesthetically, if a girl was pretty, the way I can appreciate a beautiful piece of music, or a painting. But that movement of the emotions, from admiration to desire... this I did not understand. Like, yes, some girl is pretty to look at, but to _want_ her? To want to go to bed with her? How do I have a clue if I desire her, if I don't even know her? <<

>>It just kind of happens<< shrugged Ralf. >>Not with the mind, but somewhere down in the groin.<<

>>Not in mine<< said Flori. >>Maybe I am just wired backwards. I don't know.<< He squeezed me quickly, as if to reassure me. >>With Zhan, I knew I liked her. And not just liked her, but felt like... she and I understood one another, on a very deep level. That we were from the same planet. Liking grew to esteem. Esteem grew to admiration. Admiration grew to love, almost in the same way that I started to feel about you, Ralf, in those first few weeks after we met in Remscheid.<<

>>But we played together<< insisted Ralf. >>We composed music together, you and I, every day for hours at a time. You said that that was the most intimate thing you felt two humans could do together. Making music with me, you said, was the thing that brought you to declare that you felt an affinity, felt love for me. You never made music with Chan.<<

Florian smiled at him, a smile so full of love and acceptance and shared memories that it almost made my heart burst to look at him. I knew what it was, to have the smiled turned on me. >>Well. I discovered, with Zhan, that dancing could have the same effect as making music. We danced, and we became like one person. I realised... I trust this girl. I feel I have grown so close to her, that I feel we could share anything. Dancing was a very powerful, very intimate form of communicating together. And then... _then_ , I started to desire her. I realised at that moment, as we danced to Can in Köln, just how powerful desire could be, and I understood, at last, the intellectual and emotional appeal of sex.<<

>>You never desired me, like that<< blurted out Ralf, in a very small voice, thick with an emotion I could not entirely read.

It was an odd thing for him to have said, though it took a few moments for it to strike me, just how odd it was. Neither Flori nor Ralf seemed to really acknowledge that he had said it, though they were both peering at each other, half wary, half curious. The silence hung between them for a long time, until Ralf turned away, staring at the stereo as he sipped his drink, as if noticing for the first time that there was music coming out of it. It probably meant something, that the music Flori had recorded with Michael and Klaus did not fully capture one's attention the way that Ruckzuck and their older songs did. But Ralf seemed impressed by it, or maybe he was just doing his best to change the subject.

>>Look, I really like this song, Flori<< he announced, cocking an ear to the rehearsal tape. >>I love this driving rhythm of Michael's, he always was such an inventive guitarist. The propulsive effect is... well, it's fantastic. It honestly feels like flying.<<

>>Michael is a phenomenally talented guitarist, yes. But Klaus and I, we do not have an affinity. This music does not contain love, or understanding, the way that yours and mine did, Ralfi. It is full of anger, and aggression. It is brutal music. It does not make me feel... desire or even pleasure, to listen to it.<<

>>Our music had plenty of anger and aggression<< laughed Ralf. >>What about Vom Himmel Hoch?<<

>>The aggression was all in the subject matter - we never directed that aggression against one another. We always had a lot of fun playing it.<< Flori murmured, but he seemed very distracted. Abruptly, he sat up, and climbed over me to get out of bed. >>Look, do you want a smoke?<<

>>What kind of smoke?<< Ralf asked cautiously.

>>I received a small amount of weed from Conny - he said it would help with the pain.<< He laughed a little as he pointed to the bruise on his cheekbone, which had already darkened to a purplish blue. >>As you know, Jan doesn't really smoke, and it's no fun by myself, so I thought you might like...<<

Ralf brightened. >>OK. Have you got any rolling papers?<<

Together, they somehow scraped together the requisite paraphernalia, laughing like a pair of schoolboys. Ralf sat in the single seat by the bed as he rolled nearly half of it into an enormous joint, the size of a small carrot, while Flori searched for an ashtray.

>>It's almost the size of that joint they gave us, just before we went on, at the festival in Essen. Do you remember? It was nearly the size of your Tubon.<< chortled Flori, as he returned, spreading himself back across the bed.

>>Oh my god, I thought my head was going to explode<< reminisced Ralf, running his tongue along the bottom of the rolling paper to seal it. >>I'm embarrassed to see pictures of myself at that gig, I look so absolutely wasted.<<

>>Who was the guitarist at the gig? I've been trying to remember his name...<< sighed Florian.

>>Oh no<< said Ralf. >>He was terrible. We're not playing with him again. Don't you remember? He couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.<< Lighting a match, he held it against the end of the joint, puffing until it caught.

>>No, but his brother was a pretty decent drummer. You remember that band his brother was in? The one that played all the English songs. The Beat something. Like Beatles, but not Beatles.<< He accepted the joint, as Ralf passed it over.

>>Beathovens<< supplied Ralf, letting out a plume of smoke from his nostrils. >>His brother was the bassist in that band, not the drummer. The drummer in that band was Wolfgang Flür. From Spirits of Sound. Michael's old band.<<

>>Ah, well, Wolfgang was a pretty decent drummer in those days<< observed Florian between puffs of the joint.

Ralf's eyes suddenly grew round. >>Noooo<< he said, quite clearly. >>Absolutely not. If that's what you're thinking about, then no. Under no circumstances.<<

>>How do you even know what I'm going to ask?<< wondered Florian, rolling over onto his back. He accidentally blew smoke out towards my face, then waved it away. >>Are you sure you don't want some, my love?<<

I looked at it very carefully. >>Oh, what the hell.<< Taking it from him, I held it gingerly between thumb and forefinger while I sucked in the tiniest breath.

Behind me, the tape snapped off, and we all jumped. >>Put on a record, if you like<< directed Flori, wafting his hand gently towards the stereo.

Since Ralf was closest, he bent over the edge of his chair, and started digging through the pile of records, before pulling out The Man Who Sold The World. >>Oh, I love this album.<<

>>I didn't know you liked David Bowie<< I said, surprised that Ralf liked something that, well... _pop_.

>>You don't know a lot of things about me, do you<< replied Ralf, with a twinkle to his eye and the ghost of flirtation.

Another lifetime ago, I would have risen to it, would have challenged him, would have tried to prove him wrong, but I just shrugged, feeling more charitable towards the young man. >>I suppose I don't.<<

He just smiled in return, then laughed shyly, changing the subject. >>Have you heard he's thinking of producing Iggy and the Stooges' comeback record?<<

>>You and your Iggy Pop<< laughed Flori, running his hand up my back, clearly distracted by the texture of my loose silk shirt. I arched my back, feeling the chemical working its way through my bloodstream, but as Ralf turned around from putting the album on the record player, I handed the joint back to him. >>I love the feel of this. What is this?<<

>>It's raw silk. But if you steal any more of my clothes, I swear, I'm going to...<< I shivered, as Flori had lifted the bottom of the hem, and deposited a kiss just on the small of my back.

Ralf was standing in the centre of the room, joint in his mouth, swaying back and forth to _The Width of a Circle_ as if he really wanted to dance, but was too shy to. I laughed and flopped backwards across the bed, accidentally half-draping myself across Flori. It was strange, I had worried for months about the reunion with Ralf, worried that it would be awkward and stilted and horrible, but it felt somehow completely natural, almost the same as those lazy evenings we'd spent, the three of us hanging out listening to the Stooges in Ralf's bedroom at the Berger Allee.  >>Dance for us<< I urged, clapping in time with the music.

>>Oh no.<< Ralf blushed slightly, but smiled, looking down at his feet. >>I'm not a very good dancer.<<

I burst out laughing.

Beneath me, Flori rumbled as he shifted position to see what I was laughing at. >>He's not _that_ bad a dancer. <<

>>That's not what I'm laughing at<< I said, sitting up, and looking over at the self-conscious young man swinging his hips back and forth tentatively to Bowie's beat. >>Who are you and what have you done with our real Ralf Hütter?<<

>>What on earth do you mean? I'm the same old Ralf I've always been.<< Ralf shrugged, handing the joint back to me, as he tried to concentrate very hard on making his feet move in rhythm with the bass.

>>The Ralf Hütter we know is the best at everything<< I pointed out. >>Dancing, camping, mountain-climbing, driving, cycling, computer coding, playing the organ, starting campfires... have I left anything out?<<

Ralf blushed and looked up at me from under his long eyelashes. >>The best at failing architectural exams?<<

My heart suddenly warmed to him, as I turned around to look at Flori. >>Do you mind if I...?<< I gestured towards his friend.

>>No, go ahead<< laughed Flori, lying back and taking the joint from me. It was funny, how we had learned to anticipate whatever it was the other wanted to say, without needing to ask. >>If she can teach me to dance, she can teach anyone.<<

>>Come here<< I directed, standing up and moving over towards Ralf, holding out my hands. >>Now put your hands here, and here...<< He took one of my hands, then put the other on my hip. >>And your feet go there, and there. OK step step forward, then step step to the side... Ow! No, not on my foot.<<

Ralf giggled apologetically, then tried a little harder. He had a very good sense of rhythm, perhaps even better than Flori's, but he was definitely less co-ordinated, as if unsure where his limbs actually began or ended. >>So where did you learn to dance?<<

>>At school of course.<<

>>I thought you went to an all-girls school?<<

>>Yes, but we took turns leading.<< I moved with my body, trying to show Ralf where to go next.

>>Was Valerie your partner?<< he teased, though he was starting to get the hang of it, moving his hips back and forth in time with mine.

>>Yes, mostly.<< An image sprang unbidden into my mind. >>She used to pinch my bum if I did the steps wrong.<< Ralf's eyes lit up with mischief as I shot him a warning look. >>If you even _think_ of pinching my bum, I will slap you. <<

>>You know, secretly<< he confessed, lowering his voice to a whisper as he moved his face closer to my ear. >>I used to like it when you slapped me.<<

>>Knock it off<< I told him, trying not to pay any attention to his flirting. >>You know my fiancé is standing... well, lying... right there.<<

>>I don't mind<< shrugged Flori, letting a plume of smoke waft up from his lips. >>I'm enjoying watching you. You always were a very good dancer, Zhan.<<

To my surprise, Ralf proved a quick learner and soon showed signs of becoming a fairly good dancer. He was precise and very firm about his movements, but surprisingly supple, and we moved together well. I suppose we were just used to one another's bodies already. We danced quite close until the end of the song, then I pulled away, and turned back to Flori. >>Come on, you dance with me now. Since this is apparently what got us in this mess.<<

Flori grinned, and pulled himself slowly to his feet, passing the remains of the joint to Ralf, who kicked off his chelsea boots, and lay down on the bed that Flori had just vacated. Pulling himself up to his full height, Flori held out his hand for me to take, as I folded myself against his body, wrapping my other arm around his neck and laying my head against his shoulder. Together, we moved to _All The Mad Men_ , our hips pressed tightly together, as I let him lead me around in lazy circles, swaying and waltzing, but really just enjoying the sensation of our bodies moving so closely together. Just the smell of him drove me wild, as I felt him rubbing his hands back and forth across my back, still entranced by the silk of my shirt.

>>You two aren't even dancing<< groaned Ralf, sucking at the roach like a baby's bottle. >>You're just fucking, standing up. No wonder dancing like that finally taught you to want to go to bed with a girl.<<

>>A vertical expression of a horizontal desire<< said Flori, pulling me even closer. I felt really quite randy, to be honest, and wondered if that potent weed of Conny's was an aphrodisiac of some kind, or if there was just something about the combination of the heat, and that sexy music of Bowie's.

>>It makes me wonder<< mused Ralf, lying back on the bed, his eyes half closed. >>Chan, you have made love to both of us now.<< I stiffened, not wanting to answer the question I knew was coming next. But what he did say caught me unaware. >>What is it like, to make love to Flori?<< I whirled my head around, trying to work out if he was poking fun at me or not, but his face was quite serious, and slightly dreamy. >>I imagine he's very... _thorough_. <<

>>If you don't shut up, Ralf, I'm going to make you two dance with each other to find out.<< I said, not sure if I was teasing or warning.

>>I'd be honoured to<< said Flori, in a very low voice.

Ralf sniggered slightly, rolling over on one side, facing towards us. >>You remember what it lead to, last time we... let Jan suggest you take her place<< he said in a slightly suggestive tone, touching his lips as if remembering a kiss.

Swinging around so that I was facing the window, Flori rested his chin on my shoulder, staring past me, back towards the bed. >>I remember. Though you swore blind, the next morning, that you didn't.<<

>>Well.<< I could not see Ralf, but the room suddenly went very quiet, and I became aware of an odd tension, which seemed to be pulsing through the room like waves of sound. The song had ended, and I pulled away slightly from Flori, looking up at him with a question on my face, like I was both oddly afraid of, and also greatly anticipating whatever it was that would release that tension. Finally, Ralf spoke, behind me, though his voice was oddly tight. >>My goodness, it's late. What time is the last bus back into town? I left my car down by Emil's house.<<

I thought for a moment, trying to remember if it was a weekday or a Sunday, mentally flicking through the schedule. >>I think the last one goes from the bottom of the road at half past, but it's slow. Doesn't get down to the Altstadt until a little after the hour.<<

Ralf sighed, though with relief or disappointment, I couldn't tell. >>I would have to run to catch it. Can you get a taxi all the way out here?<<

Florian stopped swaying gently against me, and stood up straight. I could feel his heart beating through his chest. >>You don't have to go now. You could always... well, if you wanted, you could sleep with us.<<

The silence in the room grew almost oppressive, as I stared up at Florian, trying to figure out what on earth would make him say a thing like that. >>What?<< I finally asked, my voice falling into the silence like a large stone into a still pool.

>>If you don't mind<< he said, very quietly. >>I think there's some unfinished business here.<<

I was too afraid to turn around and look at Ralf, but I could hear the sheets rustle as he moved, all too aware of the fact that he was lying in our bed. >>When you say sleep with you<< he said at last. >>Do you mean, just stay in your house, or do you mean...<< His voice trailed off, as if he were afraid to voice the desire. >>Sleep in this bed, with the two of you.<<

Flori cleared his throat, and shifted from foot to foot, as if trying to figure out what question he himself had meant by asking. >>We are getting married in a couple of weeks<< he announced in a slightly wavering voice. >>And though Zhan keeps insisting that it's just a paper marriage, for the visa, I intend on keeping our vows, at least the bit about forsaking all others. But I don't want to enter this marriage, thinking, always wondering, if there is something else that you or I might always have wanted to know, but never had the courage to ask.<<

>>Never had the _courage_? << sputtered Ralf. >>I asked, and you said no, the first time I told you that I loved you.<<

>>I had known you only two weeks, the first time you asked<< said Florian in a wavering voice. >>Something I know about myself now, that I did not know then, is that it takes me a lot longer than two weeks, to know.<<

>>Are you saying you _want_ to, now? Now that Chan has taught you all about sexual desire, you have changed your mind about me? << Ralf looked utterly disbelieving and yet consumed by hope at the same time.

>>I might have<< said Flori. >>Do you want to?<<

>>I...<< Behind me, I could hear Ralf breathing heavily, but I was still scared to turn and look him in the face. >>I think...<< he stuttered, emotion catching in his voice. >>I think there's someone else you need to ask, because I can't answer that alone.<<

And with that, I dropped my arms from around Flori's neck, and turned around, surprised by the new note of maturity in Ralf's voice. During those six months in Aachen, he definitely had changed. >>What are you saying?<<

>>It's not just my decision, to stay the night and sleep here, sleep with you two. It's yours, too, Chan. I don't want to force you into something you don't want, because of my desires. I tried that once, and it was disastrous, wasn't it?<<

I shrugged lightly, barely believing his words. Was that actually something approaching an apology? >>What are your desires? I have a hard time believing that you still want to go to bed with me.<<

He shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head, and kind of shook-nodded, all at the same time, his eyes confused behind the thick glass of his spectacles. >>What I want more than anything else... Chan, I need to know. It keeps coming up, between Flori and I. And every time, we just sweep it back down under the carpet, like, we'll deal with that later. But there is no later now. Flori says he wants to know, and actually, I do, too.<<

>>Know what?<< I whispered, just wishing one of them would just say it outright.

>>Come on<< Ralf almost exploded. >>Everyone _knows_. Ralf and Flori have always had some weird sexual undertow beneath their romantic-friendship. Even your sister says so, Flori. When I lived with her, that was what she used to try to tell me. She said I wasn't really in love with Chan - I just wanted to fuck her because you and she were already so intimate, it was the closest I could get to fucking you. <<

The words dropped like heavy stones into a silent pool, ripples spreading all across the room. _I knew it_ , I thought. I had always known it.

>>Claudia always was the smartest of us three siblings<< said Flori thoughtfully. >>But I think there was more to it than that.<<

>>Yes<< I said, feeling a shiver. >>I don't think that's the whole truth. I think you were afraid, not just that I loved Florian, but that Florian might actually love me back. You tried to pull me into a relationship with you, because you didn't want to have to share Flori's love with anyone else.<<

Ralf swallowed loudly, but then shrugged as if he was admitting it. >>Yes, I think you might be right. Claudia said it was the same as with Petra. I didn't actually like Petra at all. I just fucked her because she was so desperately in love with you.<<

>>No she wasn't, don't be absurd<< sighed Florian, rolling his eyes, and I wondered what ancient history the pair of them were rehearsing.

>>She was, and you didn't even notice<< snapped Ralf. >>You never notice! Like you haven't even noticed my desire for three years.<<

>>What desire?<< asked Florian, his voice tense. >>Come on, say it. I am not a mind-reader. You allude to it, and then deny it, and keep denying it. Even after you put your hands on me, Ralf, back in Forst, you were still denying it, so what am I supposed to think?<<

>> _This_ desire. << moaned Ralf, lying back across the bed, his face twisted like he was in pain. >>This pull between us. It's always been there, but I always thought, you just don't like sex. Flori is just not a very sexual person. It's hopeless. It's all just you, and your stupid bloody libido, Ralf, so stop trying to force it on him. You denied me in Remscheid; you told me you just weren't interested, in Forst.<<

>>I think<< said Flori. >>That I have changed my mind about sex since Forst.<<

>>I'll say<< I murmured into his shoulder, as I could feel, even as we were still swaying together in a sort of dance, my backside against his hips, that he was starting to be quite turned on, by the conversation, by the pot, or just by the vague impression of dancing.

>>I like sex. I think it is a good and healthy thing to do. A thing that brings a couple closer together, and heals all manner of small difficulties between people who love one another.<< Flori gave me a quick squeeze. >>But are you certain, that this is what your feelings for me are, and you won't just change your mind again tomorrow, when you sober up?<<

>>I don't know!<< wailed Ralf, seemingly in genuine distress. >>I keep asking myself. Is this real? Is this just projection? Is it just because my head is so full of Fassbinder films and the Velvet Underground, and... It's a very fashionable thing, right now, to talk of bisexuality. Everyone's going on about it, even your David Bowie, until I'm not sure where the talk ends and my thoughts begin. I don't know if you've ever noticed, but I've always been easily swayed, by what's fashionable... in clothes, in haircuts, in music. I have only recently learned to start thinking and expressing for myself. So now I want to know, what is talk, and what is _me_. This love I have for you, Flori, is it desire, or is it more fraternal? What if I am bisexual? What if I'm not? Do I prefer women? Might I be better off with men? I think... I.. well, I have loved you two more than anyone. So if I can't figure it out with you, then... << His voice trailed off as he looked up at me, his deep blue eyes open and honest, and completely vulnerable.

>>You want to sleep with both of us?<< I asked, barely trusting my voice.

Ralf blinked, carefully, twisting his mouth into a curious line. >>Do _you_ want to do this, Chan? For just one night, anything goes, and we all get to experiment, whatever our hearts desire? <<

He had never asked before. I decided I liked being asked. But slowly, hesitantly, I turned and looked up, questioningly, at Flori. Flori looked at me, then smiled, a cautious smile, and nodded slowly, his eyes flickering with a cautious curiosity.

Thinking back over the past year, I remembered a whole string of things that I had never thought to connect. How oddly Flori had acted the night we took mushrooms, at the camp in Forst. The way he'd stormed off, in a mood, when Ralf and I had gone back to the tent to have sex. After Claudia had knocked our heads together, and told us that we were mutually attracted to one another, I'd rearranged my memories to fit the idea of Flori's pining for me, and read his awkwardness that evening as being down to his being attracted to me, and being unable to face his jealousy of Ralf. But the only time we'd ever discussed that night, he'd told me something deeply odd: that while watching us, he had not imagined being Ralf and fucking me. He had imagined being me, and being fucked by Ralf.

I realised, with a start, all those stilted conversations and dangling questions could have could have been viewed in two different ways. When he'd moved into the Berger Allee, and started hanging around in our bedroom until the small hours, was it just me that he was hanging around for? There was no furniture in Ralf's room, we always just sat on the bed, all three of us lying about together. It had never seemed strange at the time, but now it seemed oddly intimate. Even his father had wondered if there was an attraction between Flori and Ralf - but Flori hadn't denied it, he'd simply responded that they were friends, and that was all they'd ever be, which seemed in retrospect an odd way to respond to something he had no interest in at all.

I looked up at Flori, and saw the love shining in his eyes, and grew suddenly afraid. The thought of losing him made me feel almost physically ill. But then again, this wasn't losing Flori; it was getting a piece of him back. Flori had loved Ralf for years before he ever even knew who I was. They had fallen out over me. So maybe doing this, could put them back together.

>>OK<< I said, and took Flori by the hand and squeezed it. And together, we walked over and climbed into the bed, one of us on either side of our old friend.


	39. Beginnings, And An Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf and Florian incorporate as Power Station, Silke and Jan incorporate as Weber und Schneider, Klaus and Michael start a NEW! band... and as Jan and Florian sign their pre-nuptials, Jan starts to have second thoughts about Ralf.

I promised Ralf that I would never tell another soul what we did, that night, all three of us in that bed together. (But that was Ralf for you, always so private, even about things that everybody already knew or at least guessed. Flori's approach to privacy was like his approach to everything else - just not to care.) And though that entire experience could easily have been written off as some fantastic product of the heat and the music and the formidable quantity of Conny's potent weed, we woke, tangled in a sweaty heap, and did it all over again at a slower, more leisurely pace.

At some point, we did eventually get out of bed, and I made coffee, and we moved slowly through out onto the balcony, though Ralf shuffled slightly as he walked, throwing me a sheepish look that spoke of mixed pleasure and pride and faint embarrassment as he wrapped Florian's silk dressing gown around his slight shoulders.

>>Is this what it's like, to lose your virginity a second time?<< he asked, with an arch to his eyebrow and a smile dancing about his lips.

>>Yes, I think so<< I laughed, and hugged him. My feelings for him were no longer complicated. I loved him, as Flori's beloved, in a way I had never been able to love him before. With my arms still around his neck, I lowered my voice to a teasing tone. >>He's what they call... _well-endowed_ , is he not?<<

>>Oh<< said Ralf, with an impish grin that suited his boyish features, his eyelashes flickering towards my other half. >>Are they not all like that? What a pity.<<

>>I can hear you, you know.<< Flori was already spread out on a sun lounger in nothing more than his underpants, basking in the morning heat, a sated expression on his face. 

>>Here, Ralfi.<< I pulled up the other seat, that I normally sat on, and patted its padded seat to indicate that Ralf should take it, before sitting down in the crook of Flori's long legs.

>>So<< ventured Flori, blowing on his coffee to cool it, though Ralf drank still it scalding hot, despite the warm weather. >>What do you think? Have you reached a conclusion?<<

Ralf smiled, and reached out, and touched his friend gently on the shoulder. There was an ease between them again that I had not seen in a long time. But then he withdrew his arm, hugging himself tightly around his slightly flabby waist. >>I am glad of what we did last night. I don't regret it at all, and I will treasure it always, because now, at last, finally I know for certain. It is as easy and as pleasurable for me to go to bed with a man as it is with a woman.<< But then he paused, as his face grew thoughtful. >>But you and I, Flori...<< His voice trailed off, as if he were searching for words.

Flori smiled wistfully. >>You don't need to say it, Ralf. I think that was the end of something between you and me, rather than the beginning. Wasn't it.<<

Ralf nodded slowly. >>You understand. It was perfect. But I don't think we should do it again. You and I communicate best in other ways. You should marry Chan, and be happy together.<<

For a few minutes, Flori said nothing, just sipping his coffee and staring out over the rooftops of Düsseldorf, but he seemed contemplative, accepting, rather than sad. >>OK<< he finally agreed. >>But you are still welcome to stay here, so long as my missus agrees. Our home is your home, and always will be.<<

Ralf grinned, his mischievous, little-boy grin, fast recovering his old, jaunty confidence. >>That is very kind of you... and very useful.<<

>>And Ralf - and Zhan - I want you two to be friends again. This is important to me. I love both of you; I wish you could find a way to love one another, even just for my sake.<<

>>I think we're genuinely OK now<< I assured my lover, and found that I meant it.

>>Yes<< agreed Ralf, turning to look at me carefully. >>You two are good for one another. I see that now. You... well, you _fit_ together in a way that Chan and I never did. << He paused to suck down his coffee. >>And although I know it is you two who are making the commitment, I feel as though... Well, I feel as though I should take some kind of a vow, as well. I am committing to this project, Flori. And I am committing to you.<< He looked across at Flori, his eyes suddenly very grave. >>As long as there is a Ralf Hütter, until the day the earth falls into the sun, there will always be a Power Station.<<

Laughing gently, Florian extended his hand, and the pair of them shook on the deal. >>We share everything, yeah? Fifty - fifty. Florian and Ralf. Ralf and Florian.<<

>>I intend on taking this very seriously, you know<< intoned Ralf, pushing his glasses back up his button nose. >>I treated this as a little hobby, before. A thing I did on the side, while at school. But from now on, I am treating Power Station like a job. Power Station will be a business, as far as I am concerned. You and I are full partners, in everything. I want to see just how far this can go.<<

At that I suddenly sat bolt upright. >>What is it, Little Mouse?<< laughed Flori, kissing the back of my neck. >>You are afraid that my musical marriage to Ralf will invalidate my marriage to you?<<

>>No. I just remembered my own business partners. Silke and Myrthe and I have an important meeting this afternoon. Shit! I cannot hang about drinking coffee with you, I must dash.<< Climbing off the sun lounger, I kissed Flori on the lips and stood up. >>Love you, my V-2.<< Then, on impulse, I bent down, and kissed Ralf gently on the top of his forehead. >>I do actually love both of you, and I am happy that Yin and Yang, Kling and Klang are back together again.<<

The smile on Ralf's face was brighter than the sun.

I went inside and showered quickly, then dressed. When I emerged, Flori and Ralf had moved inside, out of the sun, and were sitting at each end of our sofa. Flori had a flute out, and was teaching Ralf one of the new songs, while Ralf had picked up a bass guitar that once belonged to Michael, and was strumming along on two strings. Waving jauntily, I took my keys, and then flew downstairs to find my bicycle and cycle as quickly as I could to the Altstadt.

Silke eyed me warily as I came stomping up the stairs and collapsed at the kitchen table. The house was an absolute mess, bits and pieces of musical equipment littered all over the floor, drumkit as well as guitar paraphernalia.

>>Well, here she is. We didn't think you were going to turn up now, did we?<< drawled Myrthe, depositing a cup of coffee in front of me.

>>I am sorry I am late. It's been a crazy few days. Flori is...<< I just about managed to close my mouth before I spilled out the events of the past 24 hours. >>It's been crazy.<<

>>There is no need to be coy with us<< laughed Silke. >>The gossip is all around Düsseldorf. Tell me, is it true? Though I think from the state of you, it must be.<<

>>What have you heard?<< I asked, very carefully.

>>Come on, it's everywhere. Emil says that Ralf was round his house last week, singing a sad song about how much he misses Flori, and how he wants to work with Power Station again. And Lisa at the Creamcheese club told me that Ralf walked in yesterday evening at a quarter to seven, and you and Flori walked in at seven on the dot, he bought you drinks, you went to a booth and chatted for about twenty minutes, then instead of staying and watching the band, the three of you left together and got in a cab. It can not be coincidence, that Ralf reappears on the scene, literally the day that Klaus and Michael quit. So tell me, is it true? Is Ralf back in Power Station?<<

I stared at her, absolutely amazed at how fast information travelled in a tiny town like Düsseldorf, and how carefully she had assembled that into a story, albeit a story was slightly wrong. But still, it was a good story to cover for what had really happened. >>Yes, it is correct. Ralf has rejoined the band. When I left, Flori was teaching him the new songs. They have decided to try again, to make a go of it.<<

>>Well!<< said Silke in that excited tone that meant she was about to tell me some gossip in return. >>That means now we have two bands. Because you will never guess who was round here, drinking until all hours last night and making a horrible noise while Myrthe and I were trying to work. And who now has a new band.<<

>>You mean a _new_ new band << corrected Myrthe, poking about at the overflowing ashtrays someone had dumped in the sink.

>>A new new _NEW!_ band << laughed Silke. >>And you will never guess what they have decided to call it.<<

>>Klaus Dinger's All-New All-Exciting All-Drums Stool-Flinging Little Shits On Acid?<< I drawled, scratching absent-mindedly at what I was afraid might be a love-bite coming up on my neck. That had definitely been Ralf, who never knew when to let go, albeit I did think that Flori had actually been hurting him at that point.

>>Close<< said Myrthe, holding up a guitar case, on which had been stencilled the word _NEW!_ with an exclamation point and everything. I could practically hear the manic way that Klaus would have said it.

>>Oh no, they haven't<< I sighed.

>>They have<< laughed Silke. >>Now come on, we should get going, we will be late to the lawyer, which means we will miss the bank.<< But then she stopped and looked at my neck. >>Oh for gods sake, cover that up<< she chided, tossing me a scrap of fabric - ironically the computer-generated leopard-spot fabric. >>I know you are almost a newlywed, but we want them to take us seriously, not think we are a trio of schoolgirls.<<

On the outside, we tried hard to look so grown up, but on the inside, I felt just as scared as a schoolgirl as we met with the lawyers, who talked us through the process of incorporation. We produced our passports, and our documents, and the ledgers that Myrthe had slaved so carefully over, and the lawyer filled in some paperwork.

>>You are British? This is a student visa. It expires in two weeks<< observed the lawyer, turning over my documents, though I had been smart enough to remove the false Sozialversicherungsnummern from my papers.

>>I will be marrying very shortly; my fiancé's lawyer has already made the application for my new visa. I will bring it to you as soon as we have it.<< I explained carefully.

The lawyer took off his reading glasses and considered me carefully. >>You are marrying? In that case, I will need your husband's name and signature on the documents, and the bank may do so, too.<<

>>No you don't.<< I eyed him back with a steely gaze, trying not to let my annoyance show, though honestly, it was 1971, not 1671! >>We are signing a pre-nuptial agreement to keep all of our assets separate. This company was founded before our marriage; it stays in my name only.<<

For about a minute and a half, we stared at one another over the paperwork, as the lawyer seemed to be considering it. >>Very well. Which name do you want on the paperwork, your maiden name or your married name?<<

To be honest, I had not even considered it before that moment. Thinking of Florian's unwieldy double-barrel, I stumbled over my own name. >>Schneider-DeLay?<< As his ink-pen scratched across the paper, I made a mental note to ring Florian and tell him that if he and Ralf intended to incorporate, or trademark the name 'Power Station' they must do it now, before the wedding.

And so our rag-tag little band of tailors and sewers and weavers officially became Schneider-DeLay, Van Alst & Weber GmbH, doing business as Weber und Schneider. I liked the name, it was both minimalist, and oddly humorous. Then we went to the bank to set up our business account (and set up our first standing order - to pay the rent on the Atelier). We argued jokingly about giving ourselves all payrises, then decided to get a bottle of champagne to celebrate. But rather than heading for the Creamcheese - who didn't really go in much for champagne - Silke insisted on taking us to a different venue, one that Johannes had introduced her to, which was very popular with the _real_ fashion crowd of Düsseldorf.

In the heart of the old town was a sort of covered arcade called the Mata-Hari-Passage, lined with boutiques selling a mixture of both hippie tat, and knock-offs of some of the most forward-thinking fashions from Paris and London. As we walked through, Myrthe and Silke started joking that maybe we should open a boutique here, amidst all the noise and the neon lights, since we seemed to be outgrowing the trendy Kö boutique. But we found the bistro - a wonderful old-fashioned place with low lighting and large barrel-vaults - and ordered a celebratory bottle of sparkling wine.

There was a strange mixture of people in the bar, especially in the early evening. There were wide-boys and very dodgy looking characters in ostentatious Italian suits who might well have been gangsters. There were harried looking distributors I had started to recognise from the Düsseldorf fashion scene, having an early drink with elegant women I would soon come to recognise as buyers, collectors and the general holders of the purse-strings that made the design industry run. And, of course, there were _us_ , I noted, as I realised that we had been seated in a very prominent position in the centre of the club, and that people were actually staring at us, three attractive young women wearing the next season's fashions already.

It had still not crossed my mind that we were anything special at all, until I heard one of the men above hiss to his companion in a slightly contrived stage whisper >>That's Silke Weber. You know, the new designer? I've seen her face in the local press, and the colour supplement.<< And then he pointed, not at Silke, but at me.

>>Silke Weber?<< hissed his companion. >>She is not a designer, she is a model. And with a face like that, I am not surprised.<<

Luckily, all three of us laughed over the mix-up. I supposed I was the tallest, and unfortunately it was my face that had been plastered all over the advertisements. >>Have you heard that? We're famous<< said Silke, a smug smile drifting over her mouth as she lifted her champagne glass and toasted the room. Myrthe just looked completely dazzled. I was distracted by everything, and kept thinking about how I would love to come here with Flori, because he would be entranced by the kitschy atmosphere and the swirling blue neon advertisements, displaying the names of popular brands of drink.

Over the next few weeks, my life changed completely, and yet somehow didn't change at all. We delivered the completely Autumn / Winter collection to the Kö Boutique somehow on time, despite the enormous amount of work that the three of us had had to rush to throw it all together, and accepted an almost unheard-of sum of money into our new business account. Weber und Schneider was a real, growing thing, and Silke and I started looking into taking my fabric designs to bigger, commercial printers in order to get enough material to make up the ever-increasing orders for our Christmas collection.

And while us girls laboured, our partners were left to patch up. Slowly and cautiously, like two cats circling one another in an alleyway, Michael and Florian started moving back towards being friends again, mostly to prevent friction when they met in the kitchen of the Atelier, where Flori sometimes met me on the way to or from the studio. At first, they studiously avoided all discussion of each others' bands, and confined their remarks to the weather, or one another's health. But when Flori turned up one afternoon, carrying a guitar case, Michael's curiosity overwhelmed his reserve.

>>So you are playing guitar now, Flori?<< he asked, craning his head quizzily, all the while pretending to be cool and not too interested.

>>Just so<< said Flori with an incipient grin threatening to overtake his face completely, smirking as if he had a great secret. >>I have had one of the painters at the Kunstakademie do a special paint-job on it. I wanted to show it to Zhan.<<

>>What have you done now?<< I asked, bringing the coffeepot over to the table to refresh their drinks, as Florian, biting his lips to keep from laughing, laid the case on the table and opened it, to reveal his guitar had been covered all over with leopard spots.

>>What do you think?<< he asked with a teasing tone to his voice. >>I borrowed one of your algorithms.<<

I laughed and clapped my hands, kissing the top of his head. >>It's beautiful.<<

Michael's eyes were huge with cupidity as Flori set the guitar flat in his lap and started to strum at it. >> _Dude_ , is that a Fender Mustang?<<

>>I know nothing of these things<< shrugged Flori, holding his fingers vertically against the fretboard to try to shape a chord. >>I just liked it, it has a nice sound. Almost Hawaiian. It reminds me of pineapples.<< This with a subtle smirk and flutter of his eyelashes towards me.

Almost as if he couldn't help himself, Michael reached towards the guitar. >>Look, if you're going to play it like that, you need to...<<

>>No!<< Flori batted his hands away defensively. >>I know this is not how most people play guitar, but it is how _I_ play guitar. <<

>>No, no, it's fine<< insisted Michael. >>But let me just tune it for you, so it's easier to play?<< Grumbling slightly, Flori surrendered the guitar, but as Michael cradled the instrument in his lap, it was quite obvious that Michael was smitten. >>Ach, her tone is so beautiful. What are the pickups like? I'd love to hear her plugged in...<< Carrying the guitar cradled under one arm like a baby, he disappeared into his room, then re-emerged carrying a small practice amp, which he swiftly set up. But true to his word, he merely tuned the instrument so that an open chord sounded whenever the strings were strummed, then handed it back to Flori with a slightly besotted expression. >>I've tuned it to open-A, so you can just move your fingers - or a slide - up and down the neck.<<

>>Hmmm<< said Flori, giving it a try. Michael's small amplifier sang out as he flicked his fingers across the strings. After a few minutes of strumming, he nodded his head crisply. >>Yes, this is good. We will use this. Thank you.<<

But Michael was still looking longingly at the guitar. >>You know, if you ever want to sell that guitar, Florian...<<

Florian smirked and nodded. >>Hmmm, yes, I think I know who wants to buy it.<<

The pair of them exchanged knowing looks, then both smiled and laughed. Something seemed to shift between them, and from then on, they started talking again, in a sporting sort of way, of their current musical projects. The rivalry between Power Station and NEW! started to be a bit more of a friendly one.

And before the summer ended, Florian and I made plans to be secretly married. A secret marriage! I say this as if the Düsseldorf rumour mill hadn't gone into overdrive over my decision to stay on another year. But we never confirmed or denied anything, and the gossip moved on to other topics - did you know that Michael and Klaus and their NEW! project had made a play for Power Station's producer? Flori and I told the University and the Government of our plans; but we successfully kept it from the record company, and more importantly, the newspapers. Some people - be that Silke Weber or Ralf Hütter - might want to live their lives scouring Der Spiegel or the Rheinische Post as if they were scrying-mirrors for mere mentions of their name, but I was not one of them.

The most important documents - the pre-nuptial agreements - we signed in a dark but plush lawyer's office in a fashionable neighbourhood of Düsseldorf. These agreements had been batted back and forth between lawyers in Germany and Britain for over a month now, until both sides were convinced that neither was trying to rip off the other. It seemed so strange to be sitting there, still technically a teenager, reading this complex language about 'issue' when we had not even started to think about children. I thought, I suppose, that Florian and I would eventually get around to it - two girls and a boy seemed a good number - but that seemed a very long way off in the future. I signed, and then Florian signed, with a quip about being married now, but the lawyer frowned and said that wouldn't happen until we registered at the Standesamt.

It was, funnily enough, the same firm of lawyers that Florian and Ralf used to incorporate Power Station. Ralf had insisted that he didn't need a lawyer, that he could read and understand the documents himself. But as he sat on the floor of our apartment, surrounded by close-typed sheets of paper, trying to make sense of it all, he seemed on the verge of tearing his hair out.

>>This is as complicated as getting married<< he finally complained, taking off his glasses and throwing them down on top of the stack of papers as he rubbed his eyes.

>>Nothing is more complicated than getting married<< I laughed, wandering over and picking up one of the documents, which seemed to rattle on about profit sharing and tax structures. >>OK, maybe you're right. Your marriage to Flori is more complicated than mine.<<

Ralf grinned, his eyes twinkling as he smirked at me. >>You have no idea.<<

And as he smiled at me with that particular mischievousness, images came swirling unbidden back into my head, of that clandestine night that we three had so recently shared. Whatever competitiveness there might have been brewing between us over our approaching endeavours was quickly dropped, as both of us blushed slightly and shared a private smile over those private memories.

As I walked through into the kitchen to make another cafetière of coffee, Ralf brightened in anticipation, and it struck me again, how Ralf had been grinning almost constantly, that night. I had never seen Ralf, who usually walked about with a scowl of concentration on his face, smile so broadly for so long. Lying between us, he had wriggled like a puppy as Flori and I had slowly and deliberately stripped his clothes from him, leaving kisses in their place. I filled the kettle and placed it on the stove, turning over the memories of that night in my mind.

Ralf's smile had never faltered all night and all morning long; it had only grown wider and wider as we had explored his fantasies. We had all laughed so much, the three of us, though perhaps that mirth had owed some of its gaiety to the steady supply of Conny's spliffs that we had passed back and forth across the bed. Not all, though. It had genuinely been so light-hearted and fun at the time, so why did the memories catch me so off-guard, and leave me oddly breathless?

They came through in flashes at the oddest times, but especially when I caught Ralf smirking at me like that. Watching the steam from the boiling kettle, I remembered that the night had been so hot and sultry, and it had felt so good to be naked, our skin all slick from sweat. Our bodies had pumped back and forth like the pistons of some great machine, laughing at how there always seemed to be too many arms and too many legs. I had parted my thighs as wide as I could, and wrapped them around both of my boys, Ralf deep in me, and Flori deep in Ralf, pushed and pulled between us, his face grinning like a broken doll. Was that a real memory, or had it all been a dream? Shaking my head to clear away the gauzy film of remembrances, I poured the boiling water into the cafetière and carried it through back to the living room.

Ralf smirked wickedly, raising his eyebrows as he took the cafetière from me and depressed the plunger with a long, firm thrust. The sudden motion reminded me how every time Flori had thrust into him, he had thrust into me a moment later, and I had laughed and laughed, feeling that even as Flori was fucking him, really screwing him hard and dirty, he was still using him as a toy to delight me.

Florian murmured at the other end of the sofa, making a soft throat-clear of punctuation as he lowered his business papers and pushed his cup forward for a refill, and Ralf's eyes left mine and flickered across the room to his friend. For a moment, he looked back and forth between us, his long dark eyelashes batting this way and that, and another filthy memory drifted across my mind. Flori and I had been lying, shoulder to shoulder, on our bed. The sun was coming up, and he had one hand shaded across his eyes, though whether we had just woken from sleep, or whether we had been up all night, I could not quite remember. Ralf's head kept bobbing up and down between his legs, and Florian kept giggling, in that high, trebly giggle like a young girl, almost purring like a cat.

>>I can't believe it<< Ralf had muttered between gulps. >>It actually tastes really good. I always wondered why a girl would want to do this, but cock actually tastes amazing.<<

>>Yes, but which tastes better?<< Flori had asked, in a lightly teasing voice, always that impish desire to experiment with pleasure, to push it just a little further. >>Which do you like the taste of more; cock or pussy?<<

Ralf had stopped, and raised his head, as if considering it for a moment, then moved over, and dove his head between my thighs. His face was bristly with stubble - we must have been up all night - which tickled against my sensitive pink skin, making me shake with laughter, even as he pushed his tongue into me with a tiny shockwave of pleasure.

Flori and I could not stop giggling, as our friend, with admirable scientific stamina, had gone back and forth between us with his tongue several times, before throwing his hands up in perplexity. >>It's hard to tell. She tastes like you, and you taste like her, since we have all been fucking each other most of this night.<<

I had exchanged a wicked grin with Flori, and Ralf had looked back and forth between us, his eyelashes flickering just like they were now, until I had whispered >>And what do you suppose Ralfi tastes like?<<

For just a moment, a heartbeat or two, there had been silence, and then suddenly, both Flori and I had acted at once, leaping up and pouncing on Ralf. Flori had held him down, twisting in our grasp, as I had taken small nips at his chest, his buttocks, his thighs, all three of us shrieking with delight and wrestling together. Ralf had been right; all three of us tasted of each other.

I blushed to remember it, feeling my face turn red. Surely, we had not done all of those things, in that very bed just across the room. My eyes flickered towards it, even as I tried to hold my cup steady for Ralf to refill. But he caught my eye, gestured with his sharp little chin, and smiled. Clearly it didn't bother him. It was a happy memory, a warm memory that instantly dispelled any tension between us. Ralf loved Flori as much as I did. I knew he did; I had seen it.

>>What are you two giggling about?<< asked Florian, tossing the whole sheaf of legal documents back onto the floor.

Ralf and I exchanged looks, the crook of his eyebrow, the curl of my lip. I almost held my breath, wondering. If I said something, if I pushed the conversation, guided the topic, would we end the evening tangled altogether in that bed again? Did I want that? Did Ralf want that? Was this how we were fated to end up every time, now, the three of us in an eternal dance?

But Ralf abruptly broke my gaze and turned away. I looked up to see Flori grinning at us, his long hair tucked behind his sticky-outy ears, his eyes bright, his mischievous expression almost swamping my heart with emotion. The fantasy of Ralf smouldered out like an unattended spliff. No, of course not. Don't be absurd. Flori was right; that night had been the end of something, not the beginning. Ralf shrugged, and picked up the papers that Flori had discarded. >>Nothing, V-2 my old Schneider. Have we decided what to call the publishing company we will collect royalties under?<<

Florian stretched, then smiled like a crocodile. >>What else? Kling-Klang, of course.<<


	40. Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan and Flori get married. 
> 
> Or do they? German bureaucracy may have other ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I really don't know anything about the German visa process. So I kinda made it up based on British couples I know.

One bright autumn morning, we woke up as if it were just a normal day, and dressed nicely (Flori in a decent jacket with a shirt and tie, and me in a tailored tweed suit) and made our way down to the Standesamt on Inselstrasse in the centre of Düsseldorf to register our union and sign the requisite documents. I didn't want to make a fuss of it at all, but Silke and Myrthe insisted, I think mostly because they wanted to an excuse to dress up and pretend to be bridesmaids. In the end, I was glad that my gang were all there, because Florian's entire family descended on the Standesamt, and in a way, my colleagues had become my family, so they made up for the fact that none of my far-flung foreign family could make it.

Michael came along, the only time in my life I had ever seen him in a suit and tie, but thankfully Klaus had the sense to stay away. I was genuinely pleased to see Michael, though, and gave him a bashful hug, while he and Flori shook hands and exchanged tight smiles. Ralf arrived, in a dark blue suit that looked as if it had been in mothballs since high school, though the formal clothes really did suit him, made his boyish face look more grown up. Looking almost conservative with his hair tucked away in a neat ponytail, Ralf joked that he was going to give me away, but in the end he settled for being the groom's witness. Claudia agreed to be mine, but at the last minute, she produced a large paper shopping bag, and insisted that I join her in the ladies' toilet.

I watched, with a little gasp, as she produced the shimmery silver Theodore-Heuss-Brücke dress with a flourish. >>Come on, put it on<< she told me. >>At least one of us should be married in this dress.<<

>>But won't you be married in it, one day?<< I stuttered. >>After all, you and Hans-Joachim seem to have been spending an awful lot of time together. You can't tell me you're _just friends_ now. <<

Claudia made a sour face, and I had long learned that that particular turn of the upper lip, in Florian masked extreme irritation. >>Achim, you see, has gone off with Moebie to a commune somewhere in bloody... darkest rural Saxony, to seek inspiration and write the new Cluster album. One of his hippie friends has invited them, so off they go. I am sure he will grow out of this hippie nonsense soon, but right now... no. You wear the dress, Little Mouse. It's your special day. You deserve it.<<

And so I swapped my sensible suit for that ridiculous but beautiful dress, and even though people stared at us, all dressed up in the Standesamt's little office, a pair of total strangers in the queue behind us came up to Flori and I and told us that we looked very attractive. I exchanged nervous but excited smiles with the other bride, and admired her more modest and slightly Middle Eastern gown in return. She asked about my accent, and I told her I was from England; she smiled warmly and told me she was from Ankara, but her boyfriend had found work in Germany so they had decided to marry. It was just nice to know that someone else was facing similar dilemmas about husbands and visas.

Flori, of course, was in an absolute state. It was funny how he didn't seem to get pre-gig nerves, but his own wedding reduced him to a state of complete wretched anxiety. He disappeared, about twenty minute before the signing ceremony, and though I was terrified that he had got cold feet and changed his mind, his father was despatched to find him, standing out by the family car, tearing through his belongings, and complaining >>But we haven't got any rings!<<

<We don't need a ring<< I told him emphatically as he sheepishly returned. >>The magic Glastonbury ring means whatever we say it means, remember?<<

>>OK<< he confessed, his face flushing very bright red. >>I'm just completely panicking, that's all.<<

>>Don't panic<< I told him. >>Just stop... and breathe... and... Flori, tell me a joke<< I said, hoping to distract him.

For a moment, he just looked perplexed, but then his face lit up in his crocodile grin as he seemed to remember one. >>OK, here is a joke. A proton and a neutron walk into a bar. The neutron walks up to the bartender and orders two pints of beer. How much is it, he says? The bartender looks at the neutron and says... for you? No Charge!<<

For a moment, there was silence, and then I looked at him, and we both burst out laughing at once. I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him, just thinking what a wonderful, funny, amazing man I have. Yes, being married will be just fine.

But as we got inside the office, and I saw the floral arrangements, and the couple before us posing for photos, it was my turn to panic. >>Oh my god, I can't do it<< I blurted out, and burst into tears, throwing myself against Flori's chest with a wail.

Flori did the best he could, folding me against the soft fabric of his nice suit, and smoothing down my hair, clucking his tongue and kissing the top of my head, as he stroked me like a cat. >>Sssshhh, there there, ssshhh. It's OK. Just remember. It's only a piece of paper. We do this, we get the piece of paper that says you can stay in the country.<<

I tried to pull myself together, raising my head and looking up at him. >>It's just a piece of paper<< I repeated.

He looked very deeply into my eyes, and I saw the love and concern reflected back at me. >>Take a deep breath, we can get through this. Remember the piece of paper. That's all you need to think about right now.<<

But as we turned to go into the office, I saw an irate looking woman in an official looking uniform glaring at us. >>Fraulein, would you come with me a moment? We have some questions to ask you.<<

All of a sudden, I realised we had been overheard, and started to panic. >>Oh my god, Flori...<<

>>This way!<< insisted the older woman, even as I hung onto Flori's hand, trying to drag him with me.

>>Flori!<< I wailed. I was crying openly as they took me off into a closed office, and shuttled Flori off in a different direction, but the woman sat me down and handed me a tissue, before sitting opposite me and staring into my face.

>>I'm sorry, Fraulein, but I need to ask you some questions.<<

>>I want Florian<< I insisted.

>>We need to ask you these questions separately, because we need to establish that this is a legitimate marriage.<<

My eyes snapped wide open, as I realised what was happening. Oh, Christ. After everything we had gone through to get the letter of permission from my father, to hash out the legal agreements and pre-nuptials, they thought this was somehow not a legitimate relationship, because of Flori's ill-timed reassurances? >>I want my boyfriend<< I sniffed. >>I mean... my fiancé.<< Shit, I was rubbish at this already.

>>How long have you two known each other?<< the official bitch asked, in a suspicious voice.

>>About a year.<< I said, as coldly as my shaking voice allowed.

>>Where did you meet?<< She had taken out a pad of paper and was scribbling my answers down.

>>We met at the Creamcheese Club. His band was playing. I liked their loudspeaker, and tried to climb inside it. He stopped me, and I taught him how to dance.<< I stuttered a little over my reply, causing the official to look at me, sharply, but I knew enough to omit the part about the drugs.

>>What music was playing at your first dance?<<

>>Mother Sky, by Can.<<

>>When was your first kiss?<<

I flushed red at the memory. >>In a broken-down Volkswagen outside Langenfeld, on the way back from seeing Can in Köln. I was... well, I was seeing his best friend at the time, but we realised that night, that we were in love with each other.<<

>>Do you have pet names for one another?<<

>>He calls me Little Mouse, I call him V-2. I do not want to explain that.<<

>>What did you give each other, for last Christmas?<<

>>He gave me a ring...<< I looked down at my finger, but it was gone. >>Shit. He has it, for the ceremony, because he forgot to buy me a wedding ring.<<

>>No wedding ring?<< The official lady looked at me suspiciously over the top of her glasses.

>>He is forgetful. He has a lot on his mind lately. With his work.<< I sighed.

>>And what did you give him?<<

>>A pair of orange trousers. And, erm... well... I, erm... I don't know how to say in German. I...<< I blushed crimson. >>I blew on his pipe.<<

Her eyebrows shot up halfway across her forehead as she glanced over the top of her glasses. >>Well, that was the next question. Have you had sexual relations?<<

Glaring at the official, I pulled up my shoulders defensively. >>Of course we have sexual relations. We live together!<<

>>How often do you have sexual relations?<<

>>This is impertinent!<< I howled.

>>Answer the question!<<

Putting my head into my hands, I felt my face flushing bright red. >>Two, three times a week? It would be more, but he works at night. He likes it best at night, you see. He says it calms him down when he is very excited by his music, and helps him to relax and get to sleep.<<

>>And you? We will compare the details.<<

I hated that woman more than I had hated anyone in my life, cursing the decision to marry, cursing the cursed day of our wedding, cursing everything in sight. >>I like it best on Sunday mornings, long and slow and unhurried when neither of us have to go to work or to school.<<

>>You are at school? Where?<<

>>The Kunstakademie. I study textile design...<<

>>Do you have a student visa?<<

>>I had one, but it was only for a year. My advisor intervened, and asked me to stay.<<

>>But you do not have a visa for the next year, correct?<< I nodded, not even trusting my voice. >>Is this why you are getting married? For the visa? That is what your partner said, yes?<<

>>That's not what he meant<< I protested. >>Flori is... Flori is very literal, very matter-of-fact. He uses language in a different way to what you would expect.<<

>>He said, _it's just a piece of paper, so you can stay in the country_. <<

>>Well, it is, literally, a piece of paper<< I pointed out defensively. >>Which means I get to stay with Flori for as long as we like. He was trying to reassure me, because I was afraid. He does that. He is very good to me, because he loves me so much.<<

The official lady took off her glasses and let them hang down on a chain across her chest. She didn't look quite as fierce without them, or perhaps there was the edge of concern creeping into her suspicious face. >>What are you afraid of?<<

I took a deep breath. >>A friend of ours was deported, to Norway, earlier this year, because her father disapproved of her boyfriend. It was devastating, for them both. I think Flori is afraid that might happen to us. So he wants the piece of paper that says no one can take me away from him. But me... I confess, I am afraid of marriage. Because my parents are divorced. If it were up to me, no one would have to get married. Because I don't want things to change, between us.<< I could feel great heaving sobs building in my chest, but I fought them back down.

The official lady's face cracked. >>Oh, honey, you know marriage changes everything. You know that, right?<<

>>I don't mean like that. I mean...<< The sobs burst through again, as the official lady handed me another tissue. >>...I just love him so much and I don't want that to change. I don't want to stop loving him because we are married.<<

The official lady put down the pad of paper, and looked torn, like she was tempted to reach out and hug me, but she settled for patting me gently on the tiny bit of my back that the fabric of my dress covered. >>Aw, honey, I'm going to stop the interview now. I didn't think you were a scam - hell, not with the dress, the family, the way you two were acting towards one another - but you know it's the law; we've got to ask. How old are you, dearie?<<

>>Nineteen<< I confessed.

>>Christ Jesus<< she swore, and it was to me still a little shocking to hear a member of an older generation curse like that.

I looked up, still sniffing, dabbing at eyes trying to fix my mascara. I must have looked an absolute sight. >>Are you going to let us get married?<<

>>You know, if it were up to me, I'd say no. I'd say you're too young, too naive, too inexperienced, I'd tell you to go back out there, live together for a year or two, and then come back when you're both ready. But that's not what the law says.<< When she smiled, she didn't look quite so scary; she looked a bit like a prim and proper German grandma. >>I'm gonna go and confer with my colleague. Come on, clean yourself up, fix your face. Hang on, I've got a little compact mirror in my desk, fix your make-up, OK? You are such a pretty bride, you should not be crying.<<

I did the best I could, but my eyes were still puffy and rimmed with red. The door to the other office opened, and she went through it. But then, after about ten minutes, it opened again, and I looked up to see Flori looking vaguely terrified. >>Are you alright?<<

>>I think so<< I said, moving over on the bench to make room for him to sit next to me. He sat, and put his arms around me, folding me close against his chest. I felt safe, and reassured with him beside me, and ready to face whatever decision the officials made.

>>I am so sorry<< he murmured into my hair as he clutched me close. >>I feel so violated! The things that they demanded to know, it was intolerable. I had to tell them even how you like sex on Sunday mornings. It is so humiliating to be exposed before these people.<<

I risked the edge of a smile. >>I had to tell them worse. I had to tell them about the _blow-job_ on Christmas morning. <<

Flori looked absolutely aghast. >>I just told them about the satin trousers.<<

>>Did you tell them about dancing to Mother Sky?<<

At that, he smiled. >>Yes, and about kissing in Langenfeld.<<

I looked at his lips, and wanted to kiss him again. >>Whatever happens, I love you.<<

>>Mmm. Me too.<< said Flori, and brought his mouth down towards mine, inching closer and closer towards me, like he was reliving that tentative first kiss, teasing me with the pressure of his lips against mine, until finally we were kissing in earnest, snogging urgently on that hard bench in the Standesamt.

>>Alright, alright<< announced the official-grandma. >>Enough with that, you've convinced us both you're legitimate lovers. But we have got some other options for you lovebirds.<<

>>Other options?<< stuttered Flori, clutching me to his chest protectively.

>>There are other ways to get a visa than to get married, especially if one is a student. Hermann, do you have the paperwork?<< She turned to her colleague, who was digging through a filing cabinet for another set of forms. Finally finding the correct sheaf of paperwork, he dropped it on the table in front of me. >>This is Long-Term-Student-Residence-Visa. You fill it in, you provide an acceptance letter or other evidence that you have been accepted to study at a German University, you obtain references from two professors, and that means you have the right to stay in Germany until you graduate, or until you turn 25, whichever comes first. I just need to see your passport...<<

I stared at the forms, feeling my heart pounding in my chest. 25! That was six years away. But Florian was looking at me very carefully, with a slightly nervous expression. >>What do you think? Would you prefer to do this?<< he said, very quietly.

Feeling my breath catch in my throat, I was suddenly afraid. I remembered how angry Ralf had been when I'd said I didn't want to marry him. I was terrified of hurting Flori the same way. >>What do you think?<< I asked.

Flori's face flickered back and forth between nervousness and relief. >>If you still want to get married, I am still willing to marry you. But if you would rather do this... we can wait a year or two... or five.<<

I looked down at the paper, turning over his words in my mind. If he had said _I still want to marry you_ , I would have turned around and done it. But he hadn't said he wanted to. He just said he was willing to. >>Maybe it's better if we wait a year or... or five.<<

>>Five years is a long time<< said Flori wistfully, but then he looked slightly worried. >>When you are 25, I will be 30!<< I almost burst out laughing at the alarmed look on his face, at the thought of this advanced old age. >>30 seems like a good age to get married, though.<<

I handed over my passport, which I'd brought only for identification, then picked up the pen and started to fill in the form, providing my name, my date of birth, my address, and the school where I was studying. >>Our friends are going to be so disappointed... and oh my god, your mother!<<

>>Don't worry, I will manage my mother<< sighed Florian, putting his hand to his forehead.

My pen scratched against the paper as the official-grandma prepared my passport. >>Don't worry if you don't have the references just now... you have three months to get them in. Oh, and we will need a passport photo for the official visa and your social security papers.<<

>>Social security papers?<< I asked nervously. >>Will I be able to work?<<

>>You are legally allowed to do paid work, so long as the experience is relevant to your course of study. Since you are an art student, you would not be allowed to do casual work, such as as a waitress or a shop assistant, but you would be allowed, for example, to do work experience for a Design Agency or at a Studio.<<

>>How about a fashion design Atelier?<< I asked nervously.

>>Perfect. Your professors would be able to give you better guidance, but this is precisely the sort of thing that is intended.<<

I finished filling out the form, and signed it with a great sigh of relief. >>There, that is everything. I will speak to my professors... I think maybe Beuys will provide a reference. And Grundesbach, he definitely will...<<

The official-granny took my form from me, witnessed it and stamped it, then handed me two envelopes with a government address printed on them. Then, with a slight flourish, she gave me back my passport, with a new temporary residency permit stamped inside it, valid until the visa came through. >>You have three months to sort it out, but remember, punctuality is a good, German trait.<< Here she smiled indulgently. >>I don't think this will be too hard for you to adapt. You already look so very German.<< She gently caressed my blonde hair in a slightly motherly gesture that made me feel oddly close to her, but the next thing she said ripped the sudden intimacy away. >>Now move along, my dears. There's a backlog of couples waiting now. Oh god, look at this lot. They don't look German at all! Hermann, we are going to have to interview these two very carefully, I'm sure this one _is_ an immigration scam. <<

I followed her gaze to the hall, where the next couple was waiting. It was the couple who had been so complimentary about my gown, the young woman with olive-brown skin and a heavy Turkish accent. It had been obvious to me from a five-minute conversation that they were as in love and nervous and excited as Flori and I were. But suddenly I felt a chill. The interview had been traumatic, but it had turned out alright. However, if my hair had been black instead of blonde, if my skin were brown instead of pale, would this official have turned so charming and grandmotherly? Was this what Klaus had been raging about, when he claimed that so many German officials were, still literally all Nazis? Every now and then, it was like the veneer of this bright, modern Germany was peeled back, and I saw something ugly underneath.

But the moment passed without comment, and that was that. The next couple entered the chamber, hand in hand, and we walked out with my new visa. Puffy-eyed and dazed and somewhat slightly disbelieving that they were really going to let us get away with not doing it, we rejoined our worried friends.

>>What's happened? Why did they take you away for so long? Did they perform the ceremony without us?<< demanded Evamaria.

>>It's OK<< said Flori, in the typical calm and overly-rational voice he used to greet all potential crises. >>We don't have to get married just yet. They have given Zhan a Long-term-student-visa. So the wedding is postponed until...<< He did a quick calculation in his head, then nodded. >>Until January of 1977.<<

Everyone exploded, talking all at once, but Flori took my hand and squeezed it as he lead me down the steps and outside into the late summer sunshine. I felt relieved, and disappointed, and oddly excited, all rolled into one.

>>Well!<< exclaimed Paul at last, in a voice loud enough to silence the chatter. >>Since you have just saved us several thousand DM on a wedding gift, allow me to take the whole gang out for lunch. It's on me, kids, as it's certainly cheaper than a wedding reception would have been.<< There was a brief discussion of where to go, before he settled on a nice restaurant overlooking the Rhine.

>>What were you going to give us as a wedding gift?<< Flori wondered, as we strolled over in a pack.

>>Oh, I put a down payment on your own Mercedes, but never mind that now. I can just ring the dealership and cancel the order, since the wedding is off<< Paul shrugged. >>You can carry on fighting with your mother and your sister for the family car.<<

>>You...<< Flori's face was almost outraged, as he stopped in his tracks, looking quite like he wanted to turn around and hold the ceremony after all. >>But you can still give us the car...<<

>>Ha ha, nice try my boy<< laughed Paul, slapping his son on the back. >>But if you want your own car, you're going to have to buy it yourself now. Though wait - ha ha ha - you'll never be able to afford a Mercedes if you persist in playing with that racket of a band, ha ha ha!<<

Flori's face darkened, but I squeezed his hand gently. >>It's just as well. My beloved Flori is not so good with cars. But perhaps in the five years before we get married, he can have some driving lessons. Or maybe not... because if he were a better driver, he and I would not be here together.<< Turning, I smiled at him, and saw the scowl turn to a sentimental smile.

>>We shall see<< was all Flori said, as we had arrived at the restaurant, and Paul had to negotiate to allow such a large party in, until finally he persuaded them to open up the balcony just for us. Schneider-Esleben money always opened doors in that city.

Lunch eventually degenerated into an afternoon drinking session, during which I had to explain to Claudia, Silke and Myrthe how I had escaped marriage yet again. Ralf was a bit strange about it at first, eyeing me suspiciously, but as Flori and I continued to be affectionate and loving with one another, everyone else soon adjusted to the idea that the wedding was not cancelled, just postponed for five years.

Evamaria drank a little more than she normally did, and though she could certainly hold her liquor in public, she cornered me in the ladies' loo. Although I was prepared for her to be snide towards me, her face was oddly open, though slightly sad. >>So, Little Mouse, you have escaped the trap.<<

I eyed her cautiously. >>I don't exactly think of marrying Flori as a trap.<<

>>You were awfully quick to snap up the other available option<< she observed, taking out a compact of powder and patting her nose down with it. It had a nice, old-fashioned perfumed smell that reminded me of Grandma DeLay.

>>We are both very young<< I said diplomatically. >>This just gives us some... breathing room. If we are sure now, we will be more sure in five years. After all, didn't you tell Claudia something similar?<<

Evamaria put her compact away, then leaned backwards against the sink, facing me as she studied me. Finally, she reached into her purse again and extracted an envelope. >>I was going to give you this as a wedding gift. But I think I might give it to you, anyway.<<

>>Thank you<< I stuttered, turning the silver-edged envelope over and over in my hands, hoping that it wasn't anything embarrassing, like money.

>>Well, go on, open it<< she directed, with a bit of a wry smile.

I did as I was told, then laughed, because on the outside was a rather amusing pen and ink sketch of Flori and myself. Florian had been caught perfectly, with his sharply pointed nose and his wide, mad scientist smile, and there was I next to him, with my slightly androgynous long, square face, and my big eyes, looking a bit waif-like with my pixie cut. >>That's really rather good<< I observed.

>>Oh, Paul did that. But the real gift is inside<< she said.

When I opened the card, I saw not a greeting, but a short poem, about three stanzas in length. I was a bit embarrassed, as I had no ear for poetry, but as I started to read, I was captivated by the metaphor, of an oak tree and an ivy vine. One supported the other, but the vine had to be careful not to strangle the oak it clung too, while the oak had to be careful not to shade out the ivy. By the last stanza, it became clear that the whole thing was a metaphor for marriage, though it concluded with a rather lovely and poignant wish that each partner might take turns being the oak or the ivy. And even I, with my clumsy German, had to admit that the phrasing was particularly beautiful.

>>This is lovely, actually<< I admitted, trying not to dab at my eye too obviously. >>I'm afraid I don't know German poetry at all, so I am in total ignorance of the author. But this is genuinely moving and lovely... thank you.<<

Evamaria smiled, but she was definitely tearing up, under her tasteful make-up. >>Thank you. It's one of mine.<<

>> _Really_? << I stopped looking at the poem and looked up at her, noticing a faint blush to her cheek that appeared to be genuine. >>But this is _beautiful_. I am honoured. I had no idea that you could write. <<

>>Yes, well. They said I had quite a talent for it at school. I even won a few prizes, when I was a girl. But then...<< She shrugged as she let the rest of the sentence drop.

>>But then...?<< I asked.

>>I got married<< she said, as if that were self explanatory. But to my disbelieving stare, she added. >>Poetry takes time. It takes time and work and effort, not just airy fairy inspiration. But there is no time when you get married, and have three babies, boom, boom, boom, and a husband who is always away because his grand, important architectural career is far more grand and important than your silly little poetry.<<

I stared at her, trying to imagine her when she was young. Obviously, she was still very beautiful and very elegant, but I tried to imagine her as a young, bohemian poet, struggling over a journal, trying rhyme after rhyme to make the meter fit. >>But you have real talent<< I said stupidly, because I was still young enough that it was a shock, to realise that people's parents were full human beings with lives and histories of their own.

>>You are very sweet to say so<< she said, and pulled herself up erect, a tall thin woman with a regal carriage, adjusting herself as if preparing to sweep out of the room. But before she left, she took hold of my wrist with her bony hand, and looked me dead in the eye, her face so close that I could smell the wine on her breath. >>You are very talented, Little Mouse. Don't let anyone take that from you. Not handsome Schneider-Esleben men, not the beautiful little Schneider-Esleben babies they will leave with you.<< And then she rearranged her face into her typical beatific smile, and swept back out to the party, leaving me completely astonished.


	41. Kling und Klang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florian and Ralf travel up to Hamburg to re-start work with Conny on the sessions for Power Station 2.
> 
> Back in Düsseldorf, Jan goes back to school, and learns some rather alarming gossip from Emil.

On Monday, I went back to the Kunstakademie to start the next year of my degree, and Flori rang and booked a studio in Hamburg, because he had pipped NEW! to the post, and convinced Conny to pick up Power Station's abandoned sessions with Ralf.

Hamburg, I thought was an odd choice. But Florian was insistent that he wanted to make a fresh start, completely away from the bad blood and bad vibes that had now tainted the studio in Köln. Besides, as he told me, they had a place to stay in Hamburg. Since his father was a professor at the Hochshule für bildende Künste in Hamburg, he had pulled some strings and secured a place for Claudia in the architecture department, where he could keep half an eye on her while she retook her last year of University. Claudia had, in typical Claudia fashion, turned her nose up at student digs, and wrangled a small house, on a tree-lined street near the school, out of her parents' budget. And so Ralf and Florian, in their own typical fashion, had persuaded Florian's doting sister to let them stay with her while they recorded.

Although I had come to think sometimes, perhaps uncharitably, that Claudia was a bit of a Daddy's Girl, I rather suspected that there was more to the move than just attending her father's school. She had told me at my own aborted wedding, when I'd asked after her missing date, that Achim and Moebie had been invited to spend the last of the summer composing their next album at a relaxed rural commune in Lower Saxony. But when I looked at the map of Germany to figure out where Power Station would be going, I realised that Hamburg was right next to Lower Saxony; a great deal closer than Düsseldorf was.

I had half wanted to go, as I was quite curious about the strange rehearsal tapes that Florian had been bringing back from Mintropstrasse. Klaus's driving drums were completely gone, in fact most of the songs had no drums at all. The drummer who wanted to play like a machine had been completely replaced by a machine; instead of Klaus playing like the rhythm box on Ralf's organ, they used the rhythm box itself, speeding it up and slowing it down as needed. And Flori was actually keen for me to come with him, as he wanted me to take photos of them in the studio again. (I think he felt bad that they never got to use the photos I took at the session with Klaus and Michael.) 

But in the end, with term starting, it proved impossible for me to travel up with them, so I actually entrusted my beloved Polaroid camera to Ralf. I watched them pack up the back of the VW Beetle, Ralf in his leather jacket, Flori in his sunglasses and leopard print vest - he loved it so much he seldom wore anything else - then I waved as they drove off with synthesisers, flutes, guitars and rhythm box all packed into a trailer attached to the back of the car.

My second year of University in Germany was somehow both more relaxed and more intense than the previous one. The external pressure was off, as I now knew I had five years to complete the degree, but my internal drive for perfection was not satisfied with this idea, still thinking of it as laziness. I knew it was considered only a suggestion that degrees last four years at the Kunstakademie, and there were rumours of students who stayed five, six, even seven years to finish their final degree pieces! But though I had once sworn I would never be that lax in my studies, I now found I needed to spend a full five years finishing my degree.

Officially, my professor was Beuys, who still terrified me more than a little, both with his reputation and his intense intelligence! But apparently he had been so impressed by my ideas on Morphogenesis that he had agreed to oversee me. Beuys was unconventional in all things, especially his teaching style. This semester, he had decided that he had less and less use for a formal curriculum, with assigned classes and texts, and was more interested in highly personal instruction that would be tailored to each student by a tutor. To this end, he had abandoned most of his regular lectures, with the exception of his round-table discussions - which certainly made my busy schedule easier to manage - and assigned all of his students a personal tutor with whom they would be expected to keep in routine contact with about their progress. 

But when I went to the top floor of the administration building, where all of the staff offices were located, to find out what tutor I would report to, I blinked at the name on the class list. No, this just was not fair. Emil Schult. Why, of all the tutors I could have been assigned, whose kitchens I had not been naked in, and whose hearts were unbroken by my business partner, did it have to be that one? He and I had reached an uneasy peace, after the exchange of the John Berger book, but I was afraid it could easily explode into a bad, bad situation, if the delicate truce between he and Silke did not hold.

Pulling my carpet bag full of sketchbooks and notes to my shoulder, I made my way down the corridor and knocked on the office door, feeling my heart plummeting. >>Come in<< he called, and I entered, scowling at him as I pushed the door closed behind me. >>Ah, Fraulein DeLay<< he said, with a grin I didn't trust. >>Or should I say Frau Schneider von Esleben?<<

I glared at him as I slumped in the seat opposite. >>Actually we didn't get married, just yet. Though, for the purposes of lawyers and immigration, I settled on Schneider-DeLay, since we will marry eventually. In another five years.<< I informed him testily.

>>I know. Even though I wasn't there. I wasn't even invited.<< Emil smirked back at me.

>>I suppose you're piqued at that, even though you would have got drunk and caused a scene with Silke<< I shot back, forgetting for a moment that he was, technically, supposed to be my superior in this exchange.

Emil smiled wryly, and picked up a specialist illustrator's pen, turning it end over end against the arm of his chair. >>Aaaah, Silke, Silke, Silke<< he said, turning her name over his tongue in the same way.

>>Don't you start with this again<< I warned him. >>She has a boyfriend, you know, and this one I actually rather like. You met him at the Beat Club party - Johannes.<<

>>Johannes!<< drawled Emil, then let out a little laugh. He raised one eyebrow mischievously, and leaned towards me. >>You know he's queer as an eel, right?<<

>>What?<< I sputtered, taken aback more by his tone of forwardness than by the information. >>How could you possibly know?<<

>>Silke told me<< he shrugged, clearly deeply amused to see how easily shocked I was, so I arranged my face into a more nonchalant expression. >>She told me they had been dating a few months, and though she was initially quite relieved by his gentlemanly ways, she was wondering if she was losing her feminine charms, when he didn't pounce. But alas, then she caught him getting his pipe blown by a waiter round the back of the Mata Hari.<<

>>She never did!<< I put my hand to my mouth. >>Oh my god, why didn't she just do the decent thing, and break up with him?<<

>>Oh no, not our Silke<< laughed Emil. >>You see, his mother cannot know his sexual preferences, or he will be disinherited of the fancy Kö boutique. So they struck a deal. He needs a _beard_ , to fool his mother, a part that Silke will play most elegantly, in exchange for his help with her career and an eventual share in the boutique.<<

>>Oh no.<< I felt my heart sinking. >>And why did Silke tell you all this, since you are such a gossip?<<

>>Me? A gossip?<< Emil looked almost offended, clutching his hand to his heart. I just looked at him, completely unimpressed. >>Sound gets around, in Düsseldorf on the Rhine, never forget that.<<

>>Well, why would she tell you?<< I demanded.

>>Oh, don't be stupid<< shrugged Emil. >>Because poor little Silke is happy in her career, but now completely sexually frustrated.<<

>>And I'm sure you offered to help with that<< I tossed back.

Emil shrugged and made a wry expression. >>Well, you see, I have been in a similar situation. I have been chasing, and chasing, and chasing, our beautiful feminist friend who works at the record shop. But to no avail. Heidi the Unattainable is an Ice Maiden. She only dates professional musicians. Not impoverished arts tutors. So I am similarly sexually frustrated. Silke and I, like Johannes and his mother, have also struck a deal. Now she's a big success, she wants to fuck me again? Who am I to object.<<

>>Honestly!<< I exploded. >>Ralf was right - you and Silke are as bad as each other! You deserve every horrible thing you do to one another. But why are you telling me this, Emil? Why are you trying to drag me into your sordid sexual affairs? Aren't you supposed to be my tutor?<<

Emil pulled himself up straight again, and put the illustration pen back down on his desk. >>Well.<< he said, loftily. >>So, have you given any thought as to what your degree project is going to be?<< he finally said.

>>Should I even bother coming up with something, or are you just going to fail me, on principle, when your terrible deal with Silke goes horribly wrong again?<< I grumbled.

Emil rolled his eyes. He was very good at eyerolls. >>Did you know, Jan, that actually I asked for you, specifically, to be your tutor?<<

>>Oh god, I am fucking doomed. If I go to Beuys and object, can I ask him for a different tutor?<<

>>You can do that if you like<< said Emil, picking up the pen again and turning it end over end, before raising it to his lips and tapping it against his mouth. >>But I did ask for you, because I know you're clever, you're assiduous, and you're phenomenally talented, even if you've got a smart fucking mouth on you these days. And I think - no, I _know_ \- I can help you. <<

I closed my smart fucking mouth and looked at him, surprised. Over the past year, I had stopped thinking of him as a teacher and just started thinking of him as one of our gang. But I had forgotten that he actually had an official title and some form of influence at the University. >>And how are you going to help me?<<

>>Well, for a start, I know that you now have to take five years to finish your project, but not through laziness - just because of the terms of your visa. I can help you smooth this through with the administration.<<

>>I see<< I conceded, then smiled. >>That would actually be useful, though I suspect you're doing it to keep Flori from having to marry a faithless, untrustworthy woman like me.<<

>>Perhaps<< teased Emil, his eyes flashing, but then he smiled. >>Though I admit, I have come to think that you and Flori are actually quite good for one another. You have had quite a humanising effect on our machine-obsessed flautist, and he has shaken you up and made you not quite such a straight-laced little swot.<<

I glared at him, not sure whether this was really a compliment or not. >>Are you actually going to help with my project, or are you just going to gossip about our personal lives?<< I finally said, with enough a smile that he might think I was teasing, but a penetrating stare that meant it was time to stop mucking about and get down to business.

At this, Emil finally grew quite serious. >>You know, Jan, the other teachers here, they know you as a textile designer, and a good one. I know if you had one of the other tutors, they'd have you turning out a whole suite of pretty decorative fabrics, which I know you could do standing on your head. But I know you work on that all evening, at the Atelier. So I don't want you to work on that here.<<

>>What do you think I should work on, then?<< I asked, confused.

>>You know, I've been talking to Ralf. And he told me about your project with the algorithms, that you wanted to teach a computer to be creative, to design patterns.<<

>>Oh that<< I shrugged, surprised that Ralf had even brought it up. >>I haven't been working on that lately, to be honest. I got really caught up in Morphogenesis for a while, but then it just went own a dead end with the leopard spots - no one liked those except for Flori, so I kind of gave up.<<

>>I think you should un-give up.<< Emil leaned forward in his chair, his deep blue eyes penetrating as he looked at me. >>I don't know that many of the other professors would understand what you're trying to do - I probably wouldn't, if I didn't know Ralf and Flori and the crazy things they do with synthesisers and machine-music. But I think this is a thing worth working on, and that you shouldn't do another suite of pretty little fabrics for your degree project. You should finish your algorithm. Which might well take you five years, but there... there is your big project.<<

Blinking slowly, I stared at Emil in complete surprise. Maybe I had underestimated the lecherous young painter. >>You would let me do this, for my degree project?<<

>>Yes, I would. And I've spoken to a man named Herr Grundesbach, over at the Engineering School. He said he recently provided a glowing reference for you to the Standesamt, in order to secure you a Long-Term-Student-Visa. Now you see, you have somehow so impressed this Professor Grundesbach that he seemed very amenable to allowing you to continue to use their mainframe for the project, under the condition that any papers you might publish mention that you are attached to his program, at his school. So if you ask me, Jan Schneider-DeLay, this seems like fate.<<

And so I ended up back at the Computer Lab. I worried about no longer having a valid student ID for the Engineering School, but as I got to the desk, the same guard who had once directed me to the dining hall on my very first day of class recognised me, and just waved me through towards the Computing Department. So there were, after all, some small advantages to being the only woman to brave the male-dominated field; at least I was memorable.

Upstairs at the Lab, Peter saw me and opened the door for me, buzzing with excitement to see me again, locating a new sticker for the correct semester and affixing it to my old student ID. >>Wie geht's, DeLay! I am so pleased to see you back again. How did you do on the course, you must have done very well indeed.<<

>>I got a first<< I told him proudly, feeling oddly happy to see the over-enthusiastic young engineer again. >>How did you do?<<

>>Ach, not so well. Coding is not where my future lies, very obviously. But... I am studying building electronics and the hardware for computers this semester, which is very exciting. The circuitry is... Oh, it is very exciting. I will show you the schematics behind them, if you are interested...<<

>>That's OK, Peter, I'll take your word for it<< I told him, knowing from enough chats that although he was harmless enough, and didn't leer at me the way the other men did, he would take any interest as an invitation to expound on the physics behind electrical resistance at great length.

>>And they've given me the job of repairing and upgrading the equipment in the lab...<< he announced, his eyes shining. As I walked into the Lab, he actually followed me in and carried on talking, even as I was trying to sit down and set up. >>Oh, sorry, I've left my papers all over the workspace again.<<

>>It's OK, I'll manage<< I told him, pushing them aside as I dug in my carpet-bag for my own punchcards. It had been so many weeks so I had been at the teletype that I had almost forgotten how to operate one, though it soon came back, just like riding a bike.

But Peter was still droning on about some upgrades he had done to the old dot-matrix printer to try to improve the quality of printing images, as he knew that I was interested in visual art. >>I'm good with cars, too<< he told me, changing the subject so rapidly that I almost didn't catch it. >>I fixed the engine on an old Volkswagen for your old boyfriend Ralfi back in July. Remember your old boyfriend, Ralfi Hütter, the one who used to be in our class, before he moved to Aachen? Have you seen old Ralfi lately? He was looking for you, when I ran into him that day. I think he wanted to get back together with you.<<

The hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle, as I realised the conversation was straying into dangerous territory. Peter was a bit dim when it came to social matters, so I could tell I was going to have to spell it out carefully. >>I am not _with_ Ralf Hütter << I said, very specifically and accurately. >>Ralf is not my boyfriend, and he was not looking to get back together with me. And in fact, Peter, please could you not go telling people where I am and what my schedule is? It's not safe, OK? I know you're OK, Peter, you're a good fellow, but lots of men are not OK.<<

>>You think I'm OK?<< Peter grinned at what he perceived as a compliment. >>Well, I think you're OK, too, DeLay. I think...<<

Oh, Christ. What had I just blundered into? I had got so used to being half of an acknowledged couple that I had just forgotten how weird men could be. >>Peter<< I said sharply, picking up his scattered papers and batching them together to hand them to him. >>I need to work now, OK?<<

But he still hung around, looking down at me and shuffling his weight from side to side. >>You don't want a cup of coffee first? I make really good...<<

>>I do not want a cup of coffee<< I said, quite forcefully, but as I extended the sheaf of papers towards him, I caught sight of the diagram on the top page, and realised that I recognised it, that I had seen something very like it many times before. >>Wait, what is this you're working on? This is not a dot-matrix printer...<<

>>Oh no, that is a fun thing I found in the archives. It's for an old piece of equipment from the War, espionage equipment called a Voice Encoder. There is a record I really love, called Switched-On Bach, that uses one, so I thought it might be fun...<< Peter started to ramble on.

>>Oh my god<< I gasped, pounding the schematic. >>You have got to show this to my boyfriend. He has been trying to work on one of these for ages... oh wow...<<

But Peter backed away from me. >>Your _boyfriend_? << he gasped, putting his hands into his shock of blond hair and tugging at it in a panic. >>Oh my god, I am so sorry. I did not know. I thought when you said, that you and Ralf were not... Oh my god.<<

>>No, no<< I insisted. >>Really, Peter, I mean it, you have _got_ to meet my boyfriend. <<

>>He's not going to beat me up, is he? I said I'm sorry... I honestly didn't know you had a boyfriend...<< Peter looked so genuinely panic-struck that I burst out laughing.

>>No, don't worry. Nothing like that<< I assured him, trying not to giggle at the idea of Flori beating up anyone. >>My boyfriend _has_ one of these. <<

That got Peter's attention. >>Wait, he has one?<<

>>Well, a broken one. It doesn't work. Well, not regularly.<<

Peter's eyes lit up. >>And I have the schematics of how to fix it...<<

We exchanged phone numbers. Flori was too busy with Power Station's recording session to call for a few weeks, but I had a feeling this would be a friendship both men would be pleased to cultivate. 

To be honest, although I had been looking forward to the amount of work I had hoped to get done with Flori out of town, I found that I missed him keenly, missed the sound of his voice, and even just the smell and the weight of his body in the bed.

I knew I could count on Claudia to keep them out of too much trouble in Hamburg, but Flori called me, the morning after the first session, and I could immediately hear from the joy and relief in his voice that it was going so much better with Ralf than it had with Klaus and Michael. I closed my eyes, and hung on the phone, desperately hungry for the sound of his voice.

>>We are getting so much work done<< Flori enthused, and I could hear his grin even down the phone line. >>It's just... so much easier with Ralf. No fighting, no psychological warfare, just two humans on the exact same wavelength. We may even have it finished within the week.<<

He called me again, very late that evening, after I told him I'd had trouble getting to sleep without him there. >>I have some very interesting gossip for you Little Mouse<< he enthused, even as I lay in bed, the phone pressed against my ear, tightly hugging a pillow that I had wrapped in a shirt I had fished out of his laundry basket, still smelling faintly of Weleda.

>>I have gossip, too. But what's your gossip, first. Tell me.<<

>>You will never guess who we have run into, in Hamburg!<<

>>The President of France<< I teased, enjoying our old joke. >>Elvis? Jim Morrison?<<

>>You will never guess, so I will tell you. It is Moebie and Achim, the boys from Cluster. You know how they told everyone they were moving to a farm in Forst, to compose pastoral symphonies?<< Flori was always a little tiny bit snide about Hans-Joachim.

>>Forst?<< I asked stupidly, cursing my incomplete knowledge of West German geography. >>Wait, this hippie commune in Saxony. You don't mean the place where we went camping, with Michael and Klaus?<<

>>The very same. Or, rather, the village nearby, rather than the actual forest where we camped. But, you see, this is a bit of a lie. Because it is autumn, and the weather has turned cold early. There is no central heating, and there is no running hot water at that commune in Forst. So every few days, when Achim fancies a hot bath, or a cooked meal... or a nice soft bed that my little sister has warmed up for him... He appears in Hamburg, and my little sister squirrels him away in her house.<<

>>Claudia?<< I laughed. >>That little minx.<<

>>No, it is true<< laughed Flori, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard. >>He has quite wrapped her around his little finger, that Hans-Joachim. I have never seen her so besotted.<<

>>No, it's good. I'm happy for her. Claudia had such trouble with her fiancé, I'm glad to hear she is in love.<<

Then I told him about Emil, and how he had ended up my advisor on the project - though I tactfully left out the bits about Silke and Johannes - and what my new project was. And I told him about Peter, and the schematics for the Vocoder, though Flori had a good laugh over Peter's little misunderstanding. It was, somehow, a great relief to me that Flori did not seem to have a jealous bone in his body, and found the mistake merely amusing. I squeezed the pillow as I whispered good night, and when I hung up the phone, I felt like the luckiest girl on earth.

He rang me every night from Hamburg, so that it became a little bedtime ritual. When I chided him about his sister's phone bill, he just laughed and told me that his father would pay it. And so I clung on to the sound of his voice, and the little tiny details of the recording process that he told me about. He told me about Hamburg, he told me about his sister, and described her house to me in detail, the layout of the kitchen, and the tasteful way in which she had redecorated the bathroom. And then he laughed a little bit and told me how it was quite obvious that Hans-Joachim was clearly living there, from the bits of his musical equipment that were scattered all over the living room, even though Moebie and especially Achim had been blethering on all that socialist nonsense about communal living in Forst to the German music press. On and on, we talked, pretending we were holding on to one another in the dark. Even as we struggled to stay awake, I would beg him to stay on the line, listening to his breath distorted by the long distance connection.

>>But I'm not saying anything, you must get bored of the sound of me breathing<< he sighed sleepily.

>>I like the sound of your breathing. It helps me to get to sleep.<<

>>OK, but we should get off the line before we both fall asleep. Or my father's phone bill will be very large indeed.<<

They came back after only seven days, with a finished album, and a stack of Polaroids. There were lots of photos of Ralf in varying degrees of focus, as he had clearly tried to take photos of himself; lots of photos of the synthesisers and flutes and guitars; and a few rather sweet photos of Flori in sunglasses and the leopard-spotted coat I had made him, with his hair all standing out around his head, in varying shades of dark and light as Ralf tried to work out the light meter and the flash. And I had to laugh, because at the bottom of the stack of Polaroids was a photo of Flori lying seductively on one hip, in a patch of grass, looking very fetching and more than slightly sexy.

>>Oh yes, that one is for you<< he laughed shyly.

>>No<< I urged, in a teasing tone. >>You have got to put that one on the album cover. You will sell millions of copies of your record, if the young women of Germany see that photo.<<

The tape, though, he was very secretive and sly about, insisting that he wanted to set it up specially for me to listen to, pulling the speakers round close to the bed and setting up the hi-fi. He lit some candles, and opened a bottle of wine, then we turned the stereo up and listened carefully. I could tell from the furrowed expression of his eyebrows that he was nervous, or perhaps just listening very intently.

All around us, there was the sound of bells, ringing, chimes, odd bits of metal clanging together, as the two of us settled back into the pillows to listen. And then a pretty melody came spilling out of the speakers, the hypnotic walking bassline I'd heard Ralf playing on our balcony, riding along over the top of a shuffling drum pattern that was either a machine, or one of them playing very much like a machine. Flori's flute came in, drifting, pretty, and yet somehow urgent, tumbling out over the delicate tinkle of Ralf's electric piano.

It was odd, how the song was actually familiar from the jam sessions with Michael and Klaus, but with all of the aggression and anger taken out. They had gone completely the opposite direction from what the rehearsal tapes had suggested. Instead of that massive wave of aggro driving everything propulsively forward, it was soft and gently yielding, Ralf and Florian in perfect relaxed counterpoint to one another. It sounded like the sympathetic and tender conversation of lovers, rather the pitched fight of combatants.

And yet it did still move forward, with that driving sense of snow, or drifting sand that Flori had been aiming for. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, the drum machine and bass seemed to speed up, the song shifting up to another key, rising, rising, like the smoke from the candles, towards heaven. And then, after about ten minutes, just as subtly, the rhythm track slowed, and eventually ground to a halt.

>>Is it over?<< I asked, remembering the fake ending of Ruckzuck.

>>No, no, wait. That was only the first movement.<<

The whole world seemed to shimmer and melt, as Ralf's organ drifted in phased-out drones, as Florian coaxed a slow, meandering melody from his alto flute. Flori's face lit up with anticipation, so I knew that more was coming when the music faded out again, and this time, the rhythm had sped up to that skittering, flying beat that Klaus used to play. The guitar was stuttering back and forth in a stop-start beat that reminded me of the Velvets, while a violin droned across the background in those strange Turkish scales that Flori loved so much. I broke into a wide smile, remembering that first evening we'd spent together, sitting under the desk, sorting Jacquard cards as the wild Turkish music had droned in the background.

>>You like it?<< he asked, his eyes wide, and I could not believe it, but he actually sounded nervous.

>>It's so beautiful<< I sighed.

>>You will like the next track<< he said, his eyes dancing with mischievous light. >>We made it for you.<<

I grinned as I lay back, not sure what to expect. And then the sound of Flori's breathing filled the speakers, echoey, booming with reverb, as if calling from the bottom of a very long distance phone call. I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing. >>I love you.<<

>>I was breathing through my flute, to get the right tone of the slightly phased-out long distance connection. But I think Conny captured it quite well. Do you like it?<<

I put my arms around his waist and just squeezed him so tight.

The next song was like Cactus all over again. In fact, it reminded me of those strange Spaghetti Western films we used to watch on late night television, dubbed into German, all clanging guitar and haunted flute and churchy organ sounding in unison like the wind sweeping across the desert. When Flori and Ralf were perfectly attuned, they played like one human being.

But Flori shook his head when I tried to remind him. >>It's a love song to electricity<< he said mysteriously. >>This next song, though, I think you will definitely like this one a lot. It's another one I made for you.<<

>>Oh?<< I cocked an ear and listened carefully as the clanging guitar meandered through an echoey world of mechanical noises, springs and coiled sounds like scraping wires. A strange sound kept repeating, like a bouncing shuttlecock. >>What's it called?<<

>>Spool 4<< he laughed. >>It's about your weaving machine, can't you hear?.<<

I hit him. Not hard, just an affectionate glancing blow that he caught, and kissed my hand before folding it against his chest, staring up at me as the next song started to jangle out between the speakers, just guitar and bass, both through layers of delay and reverb, Flori and Ralf alone against the silence, playing tiny phrases back and forth to one another the same way they talked, quietly, urgently, with glances and expressions and gestures of their hands as much as words. It was so obviously a love song between them it almost hurt to listen to it.

But as the last song started, he pulled me closer and wrapped his arms around me. >>This one is for you, as well, though it is a little joke.<<

There was a wheezing noise, like a squeezebox organ. >>I don't understand?<<

>>Do you remember, at Conny's studio, when you told me I was not allowed to kill Klaus, or I would go to jail... and I would have to learn to compose music on a jailhouse harmonica?<<

>>Yes...<< As I looked at him, I realised what the noise was, as it wheezed down the scale.

His eyes flashed. >>You see, I learn to play harmonica for you."

We laughed, and hugged one another, then laughed some more. When the tape finished, I made him rewind it and put it on all over again, the songs growing more familiar in my mind, smiling as I recognised the stories to them.

>>You really like it?<< he asked, worried. >>You are not just saying that to bolster your boyfriend's fragile ego.<<

>>I love it.<< I assured him. >>It's very different from the last one, but I think different in a good way. It's less abstract, less Stockhausen and aircraft noises, more melodies and rhythms. You are starting to learn, not just how to assemble music concrete, but how to compose songs.<<

But Flori frowned at this. >>Hmmmm. It's true, but I don't know if this is good or bad. The problem is, as Ralf points out, that though the songs are more traditional in compositional structure, there is no obvious single - there is no Ruckzuck for the radio.<<

>>Does it matter?<< I shrugged, lying back and tracing the outline of his face with my fingertips, trying to smooth away his frown.

>>Well, it does not matter to me or to Ralf, but Ralf thinks it may matter to Phillips. It's really in their hands, what they make of it.<<

>>The first song has some lovely stretches in it. You could cut out one of those movements, and make a radio edit, perhaps?<< I suggested.

>>Which, Klingklang?<<

I laughed aloud. >>You did not call it that.<<

>>We did.<< Flori's frown gave way to the mischievous grin again. >>It's our self portrait, in a way. Mr Kling and Mr Klang. So no, it would not do to separate Kling from Klang.<<


	42. The Singing Typewriter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autumn of 1971 goes by in a flash.
> 
> Ralf has a new girlfriend. And another one. And so on.
> 
> Florian has a new admirer. And Weber und Schneider have a new contract.

Despite Florian's worries, Phillips seemed happy with the record, and the release was scheduled for January of 1972. So far away, it seemed! And the tour was even further - a short tour in April, then a longer tour in July, to coincide with the summer holidays. At least that meant I was free to go with them, as Flori and I had both agreed that neither of us were big fans of prolonged periods apart from one another. And so for the next few months, I settled down to do some serious studying towards my computer programming, and Flori settled down to become a househusband.

In so many ways, he was very sweet. He genuinely seemed to enjoy pottering about the house, tinkering with things. He managed to fix the toaster, which had never worked, by taking it to pieces and putting it back together, though he somehow put it back together in a way that meant the lightness and darkness on the cooking scale was reversed. Flori and I remembered this, and set it accordingly, but whenever Ralf came round, he never remembered. I suppose, even when he was young, he found it really hard to change a habit he had become used to. So although he preferred his toast much more lightly grilled than Flori did, no matter how light he set it, it always came out nearly burned through, which flummoxed and infuriated him no end. Though, to be fair, he would stand and patiently scrape the burnt bits off into the bin with a knife, where Flori would just throw out improperly done toast and start again.

After a few weeks, Flori did eventually ring Peter, and set up a date for him to come round and examine the vocoder. I wondered if it would be less awkward for me to be there, or not, so in the end, we invited him for an early supper, after which I would go to the Atelier leaving them in peace to work on their circuitry.

Peter was so funny, though. I buzzed him in and went to meet him at the lift as Flori changed out of his househusband's apron. But although Flori was ready and waiting with outstretched hand to greet him, and Peter had clearly arrived with a bottle of wine, intending to be polite, Flori had moved the Vocoder off the dining room table onto a a sideboard which was easily visible from the windows. Peter looked inside the house, spotted the Vocoder, and walked straight past Flori as if in a sort of daze, making a beeline for the exposed chunk of metal.

>>Oh my god, it's beautiful!<< he exclaimed, his wine abandoned, and all niceties forgotten.

Fortunately, Flori found my friend's oddities funny and slightly charming, rather than rude, and he swiftly moved the instrument back to the dining room table so they could poke at it. It seemed we were just going to eat in the kitchen again, as the pair of them descended on the Vocoder like wolves on a deer carcass. The two of them were just like schoolboys, talking excitedly about the instrument for about twenty minutes without a single breath, before moving on to the subject of cars, and specifically Mercedes, with which Peter was apparently obsessed. His eyes absolutely glowed as Flori described his family's cars, especially his father's little sports coupe, which I had never realised was anything particularly special, though Peter seemed mightily impressed with it.

By the time I left for the Atelier, it was obvious that Peter was absolutely and completely besotted, with both man and machine. I remembered something that Ralf had told me once, ages ago, when I had first expressed an interest in Flori. ' _Everyone who meets Flori falls a little bit in love with him. He never notices._ ' I realised, as I watched Peter staring at Flori with awe, as his flying fingers described a synthesiser control pad he wanted to build, that it was completely true.

When I came home from the Atelier that night, they were still at it, soldering and poking at the innards of the machine spread out all over the table, the schematics festooned across the floor. Within a few weeks, they had actually fixed it enough to get it up and working, scaring the shit out of me to hear robot voices echoing through the apartment, albeit with the slightly sinister cadences of Flori's intonation. And then they started customising it, playing all sorts of games with the voices. They laughingly called it The Singing Typewriter and coddled it as if it were Florian's child. And when they were done souping up The Singing Typewriter, Flori let Peter loose on the studio space on Mintropstrasse, installing recording equipment that was not quite as fancy as what Conny had, but was certainly an improvement on the little monophonic tape recorder!

Was I jealous? Not really. Well... maybe a little. But more jealous because Flori had stolen away the technical assistant I had put to upgrading the printers in the Computing Lab! But instead of sulking, I started going round to Emil's once a week to chat about my progress; after all, he was supposed to be my advisor. But Emil, as enthusiastic as he was, he didn't really understand computer programming. He would usually put on a stew - Emil's cooking was quite delicious, though I soon learned not to enquire too closely as to the ingredients - and we would fall to arguing about art theory or linguistics or some advanced theoretical notions of something he called 'Cultural Studies' which was coming out of the University of Birmingham, of all places. Emil could hold forth for hours on this subject, but it was of course, all most interesting, and I came to really enjoy our little chats in that front room on the Berger Allee.

Ralf, too, stayed there on and off over the autumn and winter, as he, implausibly, managed to sublet his own room back at a reduced rate from the Greek architecture student, Platon. To no one's great surprise, Ralf soon acquired yet another pretty blonde girlfriend. Oh, what was that one's name? My memory fails me! Was that one Ingrid, or Isabella, or Gisela? No, wait, Isabella did not appear on the scene until the end of 1972, so maybe it was Maria 1. (Obviously we did not call Maria 1 or Maria 2 that to their faces, but Flori and I did, at once point, resort to a numbering system to keep Ralf's rotating cast of girlfriends straight.) We shall call her Maria 1, just to keep things simple, and my goodness was it a shock to run into her in the kitchen of the Berger Allee when I was not expecting her.

I have to admit, I stared a little, though perhaps it was rude to do so. It was exactly as Claudia had said: they all looked alike, Ralf's girlfriends. They all had a small, neat, doll-like prettiness to them, though Maria 1's hair was light brown, unlike Marijka's blonde tresses. And with her doll-like face and her big, china-blue eyes, she did remind me awkwardly of Ralf, especially now that Ralf had taken to darkening his long eyelashes with mascara, in addition to the habitual varnish he still applied to his nails.

>>Good morning. And who are you?<< she eventually blurted out, a wavering nervousness somewhat blunting the air of ownership she was trying so hard to assert with her tone of voice.

>>I'm Jan<< I said, with what I hoped was a friendly attitude, as I showed her how to administer a swift bump to Ralf's refrigerator door handle to get it to open. She frowned at the familiarity with the household appliances, though she could have shown a little more gratitude over my finding her the milk. >>I'm Florian's girlfriend?<< I abruptly remembered to add.

>>Oh.<< Her face seemed to relax slightly, though when she smiled, she looked awfully young. >>Florian... the tall flute-player with the very pointed nose?<<

>>The very same.<< I let her pour me a coffee instead of helping myself, as I normally would have. >>Are you at school, in Düsseldorf, or...<< I probed, trying not to pry.

>>Oh yes, I have just started at the Kunstakademie this past autumn. It's all very exciting. Do you go there?<<

I nodded. >>Yes, I've started my degree project this year.<< A first year? She couldn't have been a day over 18. So Ralf was going to keep getting older, but his girlfriends would stay the same age? >>Emil - you know Emil, yes? Lives in the front room, curly hair, cheeky smile? - Emil is my advisor.<<

>>Ah.<< And then she stared at me blankly. I stared back at her, wondering if she ever had anything to say, or if Ralf was just going to walk all over her the way he had walked all over me. But then again, no. That was uncharitable. People had thought me so silent, when really just no one except Flori had known how to talk to me.

>>You better get going. Ralf likes his coffee only a degree off boiling, and you do not want to hear him whine if it's too cold.<< I warned her, with a faint smile.

>>Oh my goodness<< she squeaked and scurried off. I felt vaguely weird for the rest of the day, though I couldn't quite put my finger on why.

I needn't have worried. Maria 1 may have come with us to the All Saints bonfire (though this year we attended one just on the banks of the Rhine) but she was gone before Christmas. Ralf seemed to enjoy those pretty, fluffy girls for a short while, but soon grew bored by them. Or, perhaps, as Claudia suggested, they soon grew bored of his overly controlling behaviour, as Ralf still held and expressed such very rigid views on what was the correct deportment, dress, and use of cosmetics for a young woman of his acquaintance.

December was chilly, but it was an exciting time. Political protest and the possibility of real change seemed to hang in the air like the biting frost. Professor Beuys, in particular, half populist political agitator, half shamanic Pan-figure of chaos and change, seemed to attract a swirl of activity around him. I was constantly getting drawn into this movement, or that movement because of topics that had been discussed at his classes and round-table meetings.

That month, a movement bloomed in and around the school, linking both the ecological spirit of the hippies in the class, and the anti-capitalist sentiment of the communists who often dominated the round-tables. On the eastern outskirts of Düsseldorf was a huge old forest called the Grafenberg Wald, where Flori and I sometimes went walking on a Sunday afternoon. A private tennis club proposed to expand their courts into the woods, and destroy several hundred acres of oaks in the process. The Communists objected to private clubs, the Hippies objected to the felling of trees, and Beuys declared himself to have a special affinity with the oak, a tree he insisted possessed special spiritual properties.

Rather than hold a big, angry, political demonstration, we treated it a bit like one of Beuys' 'art-actions', events that were half performance art piece, half party, but with a deliberate political edge. We announced that we were going to help clean up the woodlands - how could the police or anyone else object to a group of people from the local community going to pick up litter and sweep leaves from the trails? And so several dozen of us students descended, with brooms and hazel switches, and set about cleaning our forest. Beuys was very smart about that. The police still arrested people for demonstrating, but no one could arrest us just for cleaning! Myrthe and I dressed up like witches with our brooms, and gathered up litter, as Beuys lead us in a huge merry group through the trails, marching about and generally making our point.

The Art-Action picked up a huge amount of press coverage - it didn't hurt that Beuys and his gang of witchy students were very photogenic - and spurred a large public campaign. The expansion of the tennis club was halted, and the forest was saved. And all this from a little party in the woods!

But this was the line that Beuys encouraged us to take; small, direct actions which attracted attention and drew other people to the same cause. More than anything else, he seemed to make people aware that actions and change were even possibilities to start with. His eternal optimism was infectious, even in a world that seemed at times to be burning.

So I finished 1971 with a sense of purpose and accomplishment, and a conviction that Düsseldorf was the centre of the world - or at least my world - and the right place for me to be. It seemed hard to believe that I had ever seriously considered living anywhere else. But as Flori and I prepared for our second Christmas together, shopping for presents for his sisters in that charming outdoor Christmas market near the Kö, I realised with a start that we had been together exactly a year.

A year! I turned to look at him, taking in the long, wiry hair that I had tidied into a neat bob, the slightly flamboyant clothes that he had taken to wearing at my encouragement, and I felt a throbbing tightness in my chest that made me want to purr with happiness. This beautiful man, all sharp cheekbones and impossible angles and those silvery-blue eyes, he had really been by my side for an entire year? It felt like forever, and about five minutes, all at the same time.

But Flori noticed my attention and raised an eyebrow expectantly. >>Why are you staring at me, Little Mouse, what have I forgotten?<<

>>I like to look at you. And I was just realising, that I have been looking at you like this, for a year.<<

He froze for a moment, his face wistful, caught in a memory, a rainy taxi ride twelve months ago. But then he smiled. >>So you see. I was not so easy to get rid of.<<

Ralf tried to wheedle an invitation to the Schneider-Eslebens' for Christmas, but Evamaria put her foot down, and insisted that she was already overburdened with boyfriends. Me, I had simply been absorbed into the family, and was now just another daughter, but apparently Claudia had invited Achim, and even little Tina - little Tina so grown up now at 16 years old! - had produced a spotty young teenager she now called her boyfriend. The house would be very full indeed, though perhaps we were all a little grateful that this year we would be spared the endless repetitions of the Little Drummer Boy. Tina confessed that she actually missed the lanky drummer, who had oddly always remained kind to her, but the rest of us certainly didn't.

The erstwhile Little Drummer Boy and Michael, so we had heard, had followed Power Station into the studio with Conny for a week in December. They had borrowed money from various people to pay for it, including, I was quite annoyed to find out about after the fact, the money that Weber und Schneider had earned for our Christmas gowns! But this meant that I was far more concerned that the album did well. Previously I did not care if their record sold any copies at all, but now I wanted to sell at least enough copies for us to get our money back, as that was the budget to order the fabrics for the Spring Collection in 1972. Clearly, we were going to have to have a word with Myrthe, who had been functioning as our bookkeeper, on responsible investment of our profits!

Myrthe had reported that this record was very different from Power Station, but really very good indeed, though I could hardly guarantee that she was an unbiased critic as, of course, she still though that the sun shone out of that little Michael Rother's arse. But of course, the rest of us were not allowed to hear it, and Michael would switch off the stereo when he heard me come into the Atelier. As if I would go running back to report to Flori that they had written 3 songs in A and 2 in C minor! (Though, to be fair, Ralf and Flori had been quite secretive with their own album, refusing to allow the pilfering 'gruesome twosome', as Flori called them, to hear their new material until it was released.) NEW! had signed to a smaller, independent label, who had not prepared quite as much fanfare and press coverage as Phillips had secured, but that meant a shorter delivery time. So it seemed that Düsseldorf's two sets of competing sons would be delivered of twins come the New Year!

The Schneider-Eslebens had a lovely family Christmas, with another epic battle of Monopoly, and another mountain of gifts under the tree. This time, I was prepared, and actually chose thoughtful and appropriate gifts for my in-laws and my sisters. And the gifts they gave me were wonderful! Flori gave me a copy of David Bowie's Hunky Dory, which I would listen to so much over the coming year that I nearly wore a hole in the vinyl. Tina gave me a book on numerical codes and puzzles, which we sat and worked at together, as I realised that her mind might actually be even sharper at maths than Flori's. And Claudia, remembering the previous year, gave me an exquisite German translation of Wuthering Heights, in hardback, with beautiful full colour illustrations, albeit clearly done by a German trying to imagine an English moor. Yet the best gift she gave me was almost in passing - an address and an invitation to write to her.

Since she had moved to Hamburg for school, Flori had resumed his habit of writing a letter to his sister every week. At first I would just tell him to say hello to her for me, and maybe add a little titbit of news I wanted to tell her. After a few weeks of this, he would finish his own part of the letter, sign off, and then simply pass the page to me, allowing me to scribble in my news as a post-script.

But on Christmas Eve, as we disappeared downstairs to the kitchen for our now-traditional talk about _men_ and _sex_ and _relationships_ , she touched my arm and looked me squarely in the eye. >>You know, you don't have to go through Flori. You can just write to me directly, so I can send you a private reply.<<

>>But won't he think it a bit funny, if we receive two sets of letters from you?<< I laughed, refreshing her drink.

>>I think my brother knows, by now, that there are some things that women need to talk to each other about, without men.<<

>>What, like periods and birth control and baby formula<< I laughed. And for years afterwards, we started many letters - and phone calls, and eventually emails - to each other with a joke about periods or birth control or morning sickness or some kind of 'woman problems' to make each other laugh.

But Claudia patted me gently on the arm. >>There are some things that we girls can talk to each other as sisters-in-law, that are not suitable to talk to my brother.<<

>>Like Hans-Joachim<< I teased. >>I am surprised that he did not come to the family Christmas with you, now he is practically part of the family. I was told he would be coming.<<

Claudia pulled a face. >>Do you know, he invited me to spend Christmas at Forst, with him. Can you imagine?<<

So Flori had been right that there relationship was a lot more serious than they were letting on. >>I don't know, it sounds kind of cosy, to be honest.<<

>>Cosy<< snorted Claudia. >>There's no heating. There's no electricity. There's not even a proper stove - they have to do all of their cooking in a big pot over the fireplace. Can you imagine me, boiling up a rabbit stew over an open fire, like a hippie witch?<<

>>I don't know. You've got the hair. All you need is a big, wide-brimmed hat. I could see it<< I laughed, putting my arm lightly around her shoulders to hug her.

>>It is a _nonsense_ << she insisted, sounding almost exactly like her mother. >>I give it six months, tops, and then he will be back in Hamburg. Right after he gets his first really bad dose of the flu, in that draughty unheated barn of a house. All men are big babies at heart. It will not last; mark my words.<<

By the New Year of 1972, Ralf had acquired yet another pretty blonde girlfriend - for expediencies' sake we'll call her Maria 2 as I can't remember her name and she looked like a blonder version of the previous Maria - who was brought along to the now-traditional party at the Creamcheese Club. Upon hearing that Peter was intending to spend New Year's Eve just working on his diodes, Flori had invited the lad along, intent on showing the straight-laced engineering student how to have a good time. Peter had clearly never been to a discotheque before, and turned up a little overdressed, but it was quite obvious from the way his eyes went all round and huge at the bright lights and the elegantly dressed women, that it was an experience that was much to his liking. For months now, he had been fascinated by Flori, and their affinity for one another seemed to be mutual. But that night, as if he was only just starting to understand the world that musicians inhabited, the way that he looked at Flori passed into open hero-worship.

Emil was still pursuing Heidi, still without much success, though she was happy enough to accompany him 'as friends' to any musical events where he could provide an 'in' with Düsseldorf's coolest bands. Heidi, I discovered, was one of the few rarified human beings who had actually been given an advance copy of the new Power Station album. Apparently, she was actually the most powerful woman in Düsseldorf's entire music scene, for one very important reason: she controlled the stereo in the University district's coolest record shop. She had played Ruckzuck at least twice a day the previous year, she told me over a gin and tonic at our table, and every time she put it on, someone came up and bought the album, just like that.

>>But what do you think of the new album?<< Ralf interrupted, leaning forward to study her with interest. She was, quite clearly, almost exactly his type, with her sleek, bobbed blonde hair (all of the cool girls in Düsseldorf had started copying Silke's hairstyle) but I knew he wouldn't do anything to compromise his friendship with Emil.

Heidi pushed her hair back from her face and made an expression like she was thinking deeply. >>I like it. I do like it a lot<< she observed. >>But when are you two going to write something we can _dance_ to? >.

Ralf and Flori exchanged looks, as if this were something they were contemplating quite seriously. >>Yes, I feel like we are in agreement<< said Ralf, finally. >>This is an experiment worth pursuing. To see if we can write experimental music, but in the form of dance music. Or, at least, music for moving to.<<

Flori grinned disarmingly, and turned to Peter, who was still clearly a little awed at the Creamcheese Club, as darkly lit discotheques full of attractive women were clearly not the most natural environment for an engineering student. >>Peter, we should see if we can build a machine for measuring, and then duplicating the rhythms most conducive to the dance movements of young women. Heidi... Jan... would you be amenable to performing as subjects for our experimentation?<<

Heidi looked at him for a moment, alarmed, but then burst out laughing at his maniacal grin. I just put my arms around my boyfriend and kissed his cheek and told him >>Flori, my love, my body is always available for your experiments.<<

>>Chan is the best dancing teacher I have ever had, so if we can make her move, yes, I feel like our experiment will have succeeded<< declared Ralf, thumping the table with his open hand as he leered at me. I didn't often still think of our night together, but that smile made me smile and blush at the memory.

At that, Maria 2 started to look really rather jealous, and to demand Ralf's attentions, insisting that he accompany her up to the dance floor for her own disco. Ralf had, since I'd taught him, become rather an enthusiastic dancer, and he and Maria 2 cut a dashing figure up on the dance floor. But unfortunately, I do not think that Ralf was a particularly good boyfriend to her in other ways.

Silke arrived, with Johannes in tow, and I found myself fascinated by watching the dynamics between them, as they seemed to give off the aura of a successful and happy power couple, trendsetters even in the fast-paced design scene of Düsseldorf in their ultra-stylish and up-to-the-minute clothes. I did, however, notice, that although Emil and Silke almost studiously avoided even looking at each other in public, Silke narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Heidi.

For the past few months, Silke had been growing her hair out, though she styled it carefully so that the advancing line of dark hair did not show under her blonde curls. But tonight, she turned up with her hair cropped, and the ends dyed dark to match. I was so used to Silke as a blonde that this dark-haired woman felt like a stranger, but Johannes seemed pleased with it.

>>There's something so much more sophisticated and mysterious about brunettes<< he pronounced with a nod. >>Blondes always seemed so obvious, so knowing.<< Heidi and I both glared at him. >>Unless of course they're natural, my dear<< he added, patting my hand.

>>I am a natural blonde<< I said coolly, not entirely understanding what the joke was, but knowing it was somehow on me.

>>Yes, and we all do our best to speak in words of two or less syllables around you, Jan<< he said, and the whole table burst out laughing.

I felt my face flushing. I had always quite liked Johannes, but I did not understand why he felt the need to insult me now. >>I was able to solve simultaneous equations in my head by the age of 11, I'll have you know. While you still struggle to round up the Pfennige on a Commission Statement.<<

Silke stared at me for a moment, but then seemed to realise that I was genuinely cross, and she leaned towards me and patted my hand gently. >>He's only teasing you, Jan. We all know you're clever; that's the joke.<<

I remained slightly on edge for the rest of the evening, but Johannes was in an expansive mood, bursting with good news for us - it seemed he had sent some samples of our clothes to Biba in London, and they wanted to place an order for a small consignment of our upcoming Spring collection. Silke was beside herself with joy, even as Johannes tried to carefully explain that we should not get too excited, as Consignment was not as auspicious a contract as the Sale or Return agreement we had with the Kö Boutique.

>>But isn't it amazing?<< gushed Silke. >>Biba London! Will be selling our clothes! Aren't you excited, Jan? Even I've heard of Biba; it must be even more exciting for you, as that is your home.<<

>>Hmmm, I suppose<< I hedged carefully, trying to think how to tactfully explain my mixed feelings. I pretended to be impressed when we were with Johannes, as I did not want to antagonise him further, after failing to understand his joke, so I waited until he slipped off to the bar to catch Silke alone. 

>>What is it why are you sulking now?<< she demanded quietly. >>You know he was only teasing, and honestly, your German is not the greatest. You do still use Dutch words half the time, even if we have learned to understand what you mean when you say _Naald_ instead of _Nadel_. <<

>> It's not about my terrible German or even Johannes' stupid joke. It's about Biba. I just feel weird about it. To be perfectly honest, my friend Valerie and I used to sneer at the kind of Dolly Birds and fashion types that shopped at Biba.<< I confessed.

<Sneer at them? But why? This sounds a bit like jealousy to me<< observed Silke.

>>Well, maybe a little. We certainly could not afford the prices at Biba on our paltry student grants.<< I sniffed.

>>You are no longer a student on a grant<< Silke reminded me. >>You are now the designer trying to sell her wares, and getting a good price is paramount for us. If these wealthy 'Dolly Birds' shop there, all the better for us.<<

>>I know<< I sighed. >>But still, we were actually irritated by it, rather than just pressing our noses against the glass. There was a part of us that sensed that Biba was somehow a commercialisation of something that had once been very important to us. Perhaps it wasn't as tacky as the shops on Carnaby Street, but it all felt just as packaged and pre-processed.<<

>>All of the design industry is packaged and pre-processed. It is just another consumer-product, but the consumer-product we are selling is _fantasy_. We are selling a fantasy of uniqueness to those who are able to pay for it. << said Silke, with a calculated coldness that bothered me slightly.

>>But it was a fantasy that was too close to my life. Our whole West London art student thing was a statement, about ourselves, our own personal style. We were shopping at charity shops and stalls on Portabello Market partly because we were poor, but partly because we wanted distinctive, unique things that were personal to us. Biba took that whole aesthetic and transformed it into a one-stop department store; no individuality, no discernment required. I just feel... weird about things that I have made, being sold there.<<

Silke eyed me evenly for a long time before she finally spoke. >>Jan, I understand what you are saying. I actually do. But we cannot afford to feel... _weird_ about an opportunity that would allow us to double our profits in one swoop. And profits in Sterling, with an advantageous exchange rate. It's just good business sense. <<

I had to admit her point. >>I know, and I do not dispute this. And yes, there is even a part of me that is somewhat pleased at the idea that those idiot posh girls in London will be paying through the nose for my designs. But you asked me how I felt about it, and I told you. So there it is. To London, and to Biba.<< Raising my glass, we toasted our success. >>Now please excuse me for a moment.<<

Really, I didn't need the loo, but I just wanted to clear my mind, as the cheap bubbly we had been drinking had gone straight to my head. So I made my way to the ladies - the same facilities in which I had experienced the bizarreness of an acid trip for the first time, what seemed like another lifetime ago - and pushed open a stall, to find a place to be alone under reasonable lighting.

But good lord, the stall was already occupied! That was not entirely unusual, as occasionally copulating couples did retreat to the more spacious ladies' room stalls when their passion could not wait to get home. But just as I was about to mutter my apologies and close the door, it struck me exactly _who_ this copulating couple were. Because it was Ralf slumped back against the wall, his eyes closed, his head flung back, sweaty hair escaping everywhere about his shoulders, his leather trousers down about his ankles. And between his legs, labouring away, his head bobbing up and down as if slurping a particularly choice delicacy, was Johannes.

I can't even admit to being shocked. After a year and a half in Düsseldorf, nothing phased me, not homosexuality, not public copulation, not infidelity. Silently and discreetly, I closed the door and swiftly exited the WC to return to our table. And when Ralf and Johannes returned about ten minutes later, breathless and slightly flushed, I did not even raise an eyebrow, though I found it very hard to look Maria 2 in the eye after that.


	43. NEU!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael's and Klaus's NEW! band release their first record, and as it finds critical success, the rivalry between NEW! and Power Station heats up.

Myrthe twisted my arm into going to the NEW! record release party, though Flori refused point blank to go. I took Ralf as my date instead, as Ralf had never been physically assaulted with a drum stool by anyone in NEW!, and he was insatiably curious to hear what the 'gruesome twosome' had come up with. I knew that Ralf still greatly admired Michael as a musician, even if the three of us agreed that Klaus' ego completely outshone his talents.

When we got to the nightclub where they were playing, we discovered that Klaus was up to his old tricks. Michael, who actually looked quite relieved to see us, and greeted us both warmly, informed us that Klaus was now not actually speaking to him and would only communicate with him through their temporary bassist - the poor, hapless Eberhard again, who seemed to have walked out of the frying pan and straight into the fire in terms of band set-ups. I really felt most sorry for Michael, though, who was the most endlessly patient and polite and kind young man, but somehow the volatile drummer had found a way even to feud with him.

After assuring Michael that the evening's performance would be fine despite his drummer's antics, Ralf and I went to the bar. He turned, with a raised eyebrow, to offer to buy me a drink, and for a moment, the ghost of sexuality danced between us. _Still_ , when he smiled that shy, hesitant, little-boy smile, a faint tug of attraction pulled at my sleeve like the aftertaste of sweetness. But the moment passed just as quickly, as I had a mental flash of his boyish face, his sharp chin slightly tilted back, his pert mouth gasping for breath, against the wall of the Creamcheese club loos. 

>>Gin and tonic, again?<< he asked, touching me gently on the arm.

I smiled back and nodded, thinking the old Ralf would never have remembered. Relations between Ralf and I had finally passed from awkward to OK to a genuine pleasure in each other's company. I did not think we would ever be lovers again, but our closeness was more intimate than friends. There was something almost familial about our interactions; he had become like the brother I had never had, and I had become his second sister.

He paid for our drinks, then we found seats in the audience to watch the bizarre spectacle unfold onstage. Klaus - all dressed in white, still wearing those ridiculous white overalls - had set up a massive drum-kit taking up at least half of the stage, leaving Michael and Eberhard only a few metres in which Michael sat and Eberhard stood. There was some faffing about that I realised very quickly was actually padding. The band only had one album, and had clearly not written enough songs for a full performance! With Florian's almost supernatural improvisational skills, the three-piece Power Station had been able fill any gaps in their repertoire, but Michael and Klaus were clearly floundering. Beside me, Ralf crossed his leather-clad legs, then crossed his arms across his chest, and glared quite disapprovingly through his smudged glasses at the stage. For a moment, I missed Flori almost painfully, because I knew for a fact that he and Ralf would have set to demolishing the performance with their withering remarks.

>>Hmmm<< said Ralf, a little cattily as he stabbed at the lemon in his whisky and coke. >>From the way that Conny had been talking them up, I was becoming a little worried that we might have serious rivals. But this...<< Ralf's unimpressed glare took in the stage, where Klaus was making some strange sound effects with one of his cymbals. >>I am no longer particularly worried.<<

But soon Klaus stopped mucking about on his cymbals, and started to pound restlessly on the kick drum, a steady, thumping beat that he picked up on one of the floor toms and started to drive forward like a train gathering momentum. When he put his mind to it, when he threw his whole body into that beat, straining forward, I remembered again why everyone put up with the tantrums and the rock star attitude. He was a _phenomenally_ talented musician, more like a force of nature than a man. All day long, I would hear Flori mucking about with Power Station's rhythm box, trying to get it to sound more mechanical, more machine-like, more like the steady pounding thrum of a factory floor. And here was Klaus, his eyes closed, his arms flailing, sounding more like a pounding, thundering machine than any of my lover's actual machines.

I sipped my drink and watched, feeling my pulse start to race as Michael seemed to fiddle about with the tone on his guitar. He had developed a way of playing with a volume pedal, or maybe just the knobs on his guitar, that seemed absolutely weightless, that just seemed to hang in the air like a seagull gliding on a thermal. There was no beginning or end to the notes, they just seemed to grow, organically, one out of another. Flori had tried to teach me about music synthesis a few times, the same way that I had tried to teach him about programming, showing me the difference that adjusting the Attack, Decay, Sustain and Release made to the sounds that emerged from his shiny silver boxes. Michael's guitar sound was no attack and no decay, just all sustain, all endless shimmering tones that seemed to go on forever.

>>Hmmm<< said Ralf again, but this time his face looked slightly more worried, as he realised that what Flori had suggested might actually be true; that their own former rhythm section might have taken some rather important lessons away from their apprenticeship with Power Station, refined them and honed them into something rather special. >>Of course it all is far too similar to what they were doing with Flori last year.<<

>>I don't know<< I countered, though I knew Ralf hated it when women argued with him, I just could not resist poking at him like an annoying younger sibling. >>I think they brought something unique to Power Station, and they have developed it into something all their own.<< I hated defending an arrogant cock like Klaus, but the music, stripped-down, minimal, like a one-note symphony taken to the extreme end point, was something quite unprecedented and, well... new!

>>Maybe you are right<< conceded Ralf, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs. I could feel that the tension had risen in his body, even just where his shoulder was touching mine. It was something I knew he was afraid of, but I also knew he would never admit. That although the second Power Station album was beautiful in its own sparse loveliness, it lacked the driving urgency that NEW! had achieved.

Tensions were still high at the party afterwards. I was very curious to hear what the album would sound like on a good sound system, as I knew I would never be allowed to play it at home. But Michael was in a weird distracted mood at the playback. Even though we all assured him that the band had sounded well, and that the set had been fantastic, if a little short, he was convinced that the sound had been terrible, and the playing had not been what it could be, and worst of all, it was impossible to duplicate the dense, layered sound of the actual record with only three musicians.

But before I could try to remind him about minimalism and abstraction, like we had learned in Beuys' lectures, Klaus appeared through a gap in the crowd. For a moment, I just stared at him, and he at me, but as Ralf moved forward to congratulate him on the show, his lips curled up in a sneer. >>I thought I smelled the stink of Schneider-Esleben spunk very strongly in this part of the room<< he spat, tossed his hair, and was off again.

Ralf drew back sharply, as if he had been slapped. I had forgotten that he had not been present at those last, vicious fights, so he did not realise the depths of the enmity between Klaus and Flori. Michael smiled sheepishly by way of apology. >>I'm sorry. Have you two had a drink? There was some sekt going around - sorry we can't afford champagne, but Brain Records do not have the budget of Phillips.<< he added with a gently mocking smirk.

I found a booth up near the speakers, and retreated there as the music began to play, and Ralf soon joined me, slipping into the seat beside me, his arm draped casually across the back of my chair. It no longer bothered me, these impositions. Ralf knew that Flori and I belonged to each other. 

The album started with the long, meandering driving song that had so captivated me in the performance. My jaw dropped open as the music slowly surged to life, and the conversation in the room faded away like someone had pulled the plug of a bath. Klaus's metronomic drums had been augmented by a pulsing, one-note bassline that seemed to flutter and race through the room like an electric current. Three or four Michaels played together, their tracks layered together by Conny's artistry so that it was impossible to tell where the joins were. And above the softly roiling sea of sound, there were Michael's birdlike guitar lines just floating, gravity-defying, in the breeze.

Looking over at the guitarist, standing in a clump of people with a slightly embarrassed smile on his face, shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously, I could hardly believe that these sounds had come from our shy little Michael, the former housemate that I thought I knew so well. He was so reserved, so quiet, so soft-spoken, and yet this celestial music was spun from his fingers? Klaus had no idea where the magic in his band came from, if he took this man for granted.

The song seemed to go on forever, always building, a crescendo that never peaked, a horizon that never drew any nearer. And then it all ebbed away. Ralf and I looked at one another. >>This is... this is... most unusual. A song that drives forever, but in the end goes nowhere? The only thing that displeases me about this music is the fact that I did not think of it first.<<

Ralf's face was so troubled it was very hard to tell if he was joking or not. A strange sound experiment followed, that made Ralf shift uncomfortably and glare about the room. And then there was a passage of almost unbearable loveliness, dreamy guitar and drums so subtle I never thought Klaus could be capable of playing so softly and so heartfelt. The sound of water, gently lapping as if at a boat, and a girl's soft laughter muted in the background - good god, it was Anni! I recognised her voice, though I could not hear what she was saying, only the impression of happy young people playing in the sun.

Ralf's face as he turned to me was deeply shaken. >>This is, actually, really good<< he said, sounding shocked that he could admit it. I could think of nothing to say in reply, so I merely nodded. >>Do you think this is better than our album?<< Ralf really was troubled, if he could admit to not being superior to everything in every fashion.

I realised I was a little bit slow in answering, distracted by the abrasive, violent sounds of the next track. Now this was more what I had expected from Klaus. But Ralf was looking at me, expectation turning to worry. >>Nonsense<< I assured him.

>>You're a very bad liar<< Ralf sighed, picking up his drink and sucking at the melting ice cubes with his straw. But then he looked up at me, his eyes clouded. >>We won't tell Flori, alright? You know what he is like. He would consider this a betrayal, by Conny, for making their record sound like us.<<

I rolled my eyes and shrugged. I had grown very used to the way both Flori and Ralf never owned their own feelings, but attributed them to each other. It was very clearly Ralf who felt let down by Conny's refusal to take sides, not Flori. The irony was, of course that if this music had been created by anyone except Klaus and Michael, Ralf and especially Flori would have fallen completely in love with it, with that machine pulse and the sensation of flying. After all, there was a reason that the two sets of musicians had been so drawn to one another; they shared a vision and an aesthetic so pure they hated one another for it. If I'd told Flori this was a new record by Lou Reed or Hawkwind or even The Can, he would have played it over and over, trying to impress that driving rhythm into the very recesses of his brain. But, to be fair, one of its creators had tried to kill him with a flying drum stool.

>>Flori is stubborn, but he will come around<< I said quietly.

But we did not have a chance to talk further, as we were interrupted by the appearance of a giant bear, roaring his greeting. So Conny had made it to the party! I greeted him warmly, enjoying being swept up in his engulfing embrace, and then he introduced me to the woman at his side. >>This is my wife, Christa. Christa, this is Flori Schneider's missus, Jan.<<

I was a little bit drunk from the gin and tonic, so I greeted Christa just as warmly, throwing my arms around her and kissing both her cheeks. She was as small and restrained as Conny was huge and expansive, so I think perhaps I surprised her a little. Ralf hung back, shyly, a little suspiciously, though he shook hands with both of them, and he and Conny soon fell to talking about compressors or synthesiser components or anything to avoid talking about Ralf's bruised feelings.

Christa eyed me carefully, but then seemed to realise that she was staring, and dropped her gaze. >>I'm sorry, you are just so unlike what I was expecting.<<

>>What on earth do you mean?<< I wondered where she had met Flori or Ralf, as she had not been at the sessions I had attended.

>>No, nothing like that<< she said quickly. >>It's just that Ralf and Florian are so cold, so formal, and yet you seem so warm and friendly.<< She poked my arm with a friendly laugh. >>Almost human.<<

>>Ralf and Flori are completely human<< I sighed. It was not the first time or the last that I would have to defend them this way. >>They are just very shy - and Ralf, especially, around women.<<

>>Hmmm<< said Christa, looking over at Ralf, looking so tiny and neat in his tight leather trousers, beside her great mountain of a husband. >>There is an arrogance to those two. I do not trust them.<<

I turned to look at her, wondering how much I trusted her! It was true, Ralf came across as very arrogant, but now that I knew him well, I understood how much of that arrogance came from his deep sense of insecurity. >>I would trust Flori with my life<< I told her, aware that my voice was rising slightly, like a mother lion whose cubs were threatened. >>He is just understandably touchy about Klaus and about NEW! - and also about Conny working with them, so quickly after abandoning his sessions with them.<<

Conny turned around, and I realised that he had heard me, though I had not meant to speak so loudly. He gave me a long, searching, appraising sort of a look, then turned to Ralf. >>I have always had great pride in being a free music worker<< he pronounced very carefully, dragging out the vowels of _worker_ for emphasis.  >>My labour is mine to negotiate and mine to give. I do not believe in being bound in exclusive contracts to anyone. I work with who I choose to work with. You do understand that, Hütter, yes? A _free_ music worker. <<

That phrase would come back to haunt him over the years, and Ralf narrowed his eyes, and I felt all of his muscles tense as I put my arm slightly protectively around his waist. >>I understand that perfectly, Herr Plank. We are all of us, just _music_ _workers_. <<

>>Ralf<< I sighed, rubbing my hand gently across his back, and trying to make a joke of it. >>Don't let Flori catch you talking like this. I don't think it would amuse him to be called your music worker.<<

Christa laughed. >>You are refreshingly loyal, Jan, compared to all these cut-throat musicians. But of course my husband told me, you are Team Florian all the way.<<

Ralf's face darkened. >>There is no Team Florian or Team Ralf. There is only Team Power Station.<< He left it unsaid, whether he considered Conny or Christa Team Power Station or Team Not Power Station, and everyone laughed like this was a joke, but I knew from the knot of muscles in his shoulders when I touched him, that this was no joke to Ralf.

Ralf's mood was dark as he drove me back to Golzheim, and even darker as he stopped in for a cup of coffee to keep him awake on the drive back to Krefeld. He and Flori simply didn't talk about the NEW! record, or about the performance, but Ralf caught his eye and nodded meaningfully. >>You and I, Flori, we are going to have to learn how to engineer, and produce our own records. If we go on like this, we are going to end up with every bit of rabble in Düsseldorf stealing our ideas and stealing our sounds.<<

>>Impossible<< I said, moving over to Flori and kissing the top of his head. >>You two are so unique, and so clever, and so talented, no one possibly could, even if they dared.<<

>>Hmmm. If you say so<< said Flori, wrapping his arm around me and squeezing, furtively, at my soft places.

Ralf smiled tightly, but said nothing. I could tell from the expression on his face that he knew Flori wanted to be alone with me, that Flori needed the consolation of sex to smooth over his ruffled feathers. It was consolation, and succour and support that I was all too happy to give, with great affection and pleasure, after Ralf gulped down his coffee and left. I reassured Flori with my mouth and my lips and my body, that he was the most special and amazing man I had ever known, and in the afterglow of orgasm, he lay with his head between my breasts and relaxed, the worried expression replaced by his satisfied smile. But I did worry, in those days, about where Ralf would get _his_ support.

\----------

Over the next few months, it was impossible to avoid the comparisons between NEW! and Power Station, in the press, and in the personal gossip that filtered back to us through the music scene. It wasn't that Power Station 2 was received badly, and it sold respectably, though not quite near the numbers that Ruckzuck had garnered the first album. It was just that people were so astonished by that NEW! album that no one knew quite what to make of it, and no one seemed to be able to stop talking about Power Station's Former Rhythm Section. Obviously, in the eyes of the public, Michael and Klaus had been the talented ones in that band (even though Ruckzuck had been written and recorded years before they had even met Michael or Klaus!) and the creative nucleus of Power Station were, now, well, just a little bit passé.

I knew that the rumours hurt Flori, even though he did, eventually, with time, come to have not just a grudging admiration, but a genuine love for that strange, textured record of Michael's. But for much of 1972, it was hard. Interviewers asked them what they thought of the NEW! record, not realising that there might be a sensitivity there.

Ralf really was like a dog with a bone, with regards to the press. He scoured the German newspapers for news, or reviews, or any mention, either of Power Station or of NEW!

Flori just rolled his eyes at the press, not really wanting to know what they said, simply quipping >>Don't read me the press, just weigh it!<< whenever Ralf tried to read the reviews out loud to him. But Ralf really seemed to take it all to heart. A good review would actually buoy him up for a few hours, leaving him feeling very pleased with himself. But he was so sensitive to any criticism that even the whiff of a bad review - or worse, an unfavourable comparison to Michael and Klaus - would leave him restless and doubting himself for days afterwards.

>>Don't do this to yourself<< Flori insisted, snatching away a copy of Der Spiegel that had mentioned both Power Station and NEW! in passing, in a round-up of the month's record releases. He brandished it in the air above Ralf's head, then plunged it straight into the rubbish bin. >>Stop this... _staring_ at yourself in the looking-glass. It's a distorted picture, like a fairground mirror, this... _Spiegel_ you are becoming obsessed with. <<

It took me a moment to work out that he was making another of his absurd Flori-puns on the name of the German national newspaper - Der Spiegel was just a newspaper name, like... The Daily Mirror. But it also meant Looking-Glass, or reflection, in German, and Ralf was clearly in danger of becoming overly entranced by this grim reflection that both fed and distorted his sense of self.

For a minute and a half, Ralf looked outraged at the interruption, but slowly his face relaxed to that little-boy lost look of his. >>Oh, Flori. I wish I could be like you. I have always admired how you just don't care what people say or write about you. But I am not like you.<< And slowly, he climbed to his feet, padded over to the bin, and retrieved _The Looking-Glass_ , smoothing the page back out on the table before him.

But there was one advantage that Power Station did have over NEW! - Power Station were much more disciplined about performing live than NEW! ever were. Flori and Ralf would pack up their flutes and their organ and their odd bits of electronic kit, drum machines and the like, load it all into a trailer attached to the back of Ralf's trusty VW, and they would go out and play, all across Germany. They played in concert halls and nightclubs, but they also played in art galleries and youth centres and gymnasiums. They were never snobbish about their audience; for little more than the money for petrol and a place to stay, they would take their noise anywhere that would have them. They had an unconventional way of setting up, sitting down, facing each other rather than the audience, as they recreated their home studio onstage in every detail, right down to the rather kitsch 1950s lamp with Florian's lucky pineapple dangling from one of the fixtures.

The arrangements were minimal and the songs were stripped down live, but the pair of them had a chemistry, and an ability to improvise together onstage that continued to pull in the crowds that had been attracted by the success of Ruckzuck. No matter what the occasion or what the venue - student union, concert hall or art gallery - Ralf and Florian could be guaranteed to get out there and perform something interesting and engaging.

In fact, Flori had developed a _piece de resistance_ which brought the house down every time they performed. He and Peter had disassembled the primitive rhythm machine that Ralf had bought, and worked out how it was programmed. So Peter designed another programmable piece of kit, and hooked it up to one of the synthesisers, spitting out tones in the same rhythm as the beat. At the end of their performance, after he and Ralf had played all of their songs, Florian would turn on the drum machine, and turn on the odd little machine that spat out random bleeps and bloops of tone like an electronic roulette. And then the pair of them would get up, and leave the stage, and come down in front with the audience, and dance, both of them throwing shapes and chucking themselves about to the wild robotic music that the machines would produce almost at random.

People went absolutely wild for that! They loved the automatic-music, and they loved the spectacle of the composers getting up and joining the audience for this wild, bacchanalian machine dance. Sometimes they would let the machines play for 20, 30 minutes - Flori would have loved to let them just go on all night, except the home-made electronics would sometimes overheat and short out. One night, the rhythm machine got so hot it actually started sparking and went on fire! Peter had to run up and pull the plug out, throwing his duffel coat over the top to put the fire out, as of course you couldn't use water on an electrical fire and anyway, Flori and Peter were fanatically protective of the machines.

The audience loved it, and clapped even harder, as they thought it was all part of the act. Power Station, with electrical malfunctions;it became part of the legend, and people even expected it of them. Although in some ways, they would have preferred to go on playing weird art openings and conceptual shows, Ralf and Flori were becoming one of Germany's most in-demand live acts, and they were at the point where they had to turn down offers for tours, because they were afraid that the delicate electronics would burn out without Peter to repair it and coax it back to life again.

Often, the morning after a particularly good gig, Flori would follow me sheepishly to the Engineering School, to ferret Peter out of his lab and ask him to look at why the rhythm box was billowing black smoke and showers of sparks out of the back of it. Peter would open it up with a screwdriver, and cluck his tongue over the damage, and tell Flori patiently not to drive the machines too hard, and not to let them get too hot, as they were very sensitive to differences of temperature and electric current. 

And Flori would nod gravely and promise to take better care, but it was just like the automobiles; he grew excited and got carried away, and when he got distracted he got careless. The musical instruments that played themselves were just too good a gimmick, and he and Ralf enjoyed dancing too much, and the same thing would happen all over again a week later. So Peter decided that during the summer break, when Power Station toured Germany, he would come along, to look after the machines, and give Ralf a break from driving. (Flori was still banned from taking the wheel of the Beetle, on account of his atrocious driving.)

NEW!, however, never quite got it together to quite duplicate their dense, textural album on the stage. Really, they would have needed two drummers, three guitarists, a bass player and quite possibly a synthesiser wizard to pull it off effectively. But no one survived more than a few rehearsals with Klaus.

Michael was stoic about it, or at least trying to be diplomatic. >>I think our music is just too new, too abstract. No one really understands what it is we are trying to do yet, so of course it will take time to find musicians who are on the same wavelength.<<

Heidi, however, told a different story when I went into the record shop to check how the various albums were selling. Heidi, thanks to her job, knew pretty much every musician in Düsseldorf, as the record shop was one of the places they all came together to talk shop and swap gossip and pin up 'guitar player wanted' ads and jot down phone numbers of potential band mates.

>>Plenty of people have gone to play with them<< she told me. >>Two guitarists I know of - and an organist. And all of them have come back saying the same thing. Michael is lovely, if a little quiet, and he does have trouble expressing his ideas about what he wants people to do, musically. But Klaus? Klaus is aggressive, demanding, he is abusive, and he has a temper. It's true, he does have a single-minded vision about what he wants the music to sound like, but he is an absolute monster towards anyone who does not meet his exacting standards. Even his own brother will not be in a band with him, you know.<<

>>Oh god, there's another Dinger?<< I groaned. >>The universe is not safe with two of them at large.<<

>>Oh no<< said Heidi lightly. >>Thomas is as different from Klaus as night from day He is as sweet and even-tempered and kind as Klaus is volatile and angry. Oh, and as handsome as the day is long, to boot. Have you ever seen him, Jan? He is quite something.<< Her eyes flashed, as I realised that Emil was never ever going to get anywhere with his crush while this other Dinger brother walked the earth.

>>I am a married woman, Heidi<< I laughed. >>I have eyes for no other men but Flori.<<

>>Oh, of course you are<< sighed Heidi. >>Never mind, send my love to Flori and Ralf. Oh, and tell them that we have run out of Power Station T-shirts in size Medium if they want to send some more along.<<

>>I'll print them up this weekend, and have Flori drop them off next week.<< It was still, when the band were not performing paying gigs, Flori's main source of income. So even though I was, at last, earning a small salary from Weber und Schneider thanks to Johannes' extended distribution, I always made sure that those attractive traffic cone T-shirts were in stock.


	44. Mönchengladbach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Weber und Schneider expand into a new Atelier, the architect they hire to fit out the space brings them back into contact with a certain interior design apprentice. But does this apprentice have designs on the girls, or on the girl's boyfriend's band?

I heard through the Düsseldorf rumour mill - OK, through a letter from Claudia - that the third of the well-known bands from our little scene had also followed Power Station's and NEW!'s example and enlisted Conny Plank's guiding hand to record their album. Cluster were back in Hamburg yet again, and just as Claudia had predicted, Hans-Joachim had abandoned the freezing-cold commune to move into her house and her nice warm bed again while the band worked on their second album.

Although I knew that Claudia was absolutely besotted with Hans-Joachim and thought the sun and moon and stars revolved around him, I never entirely trusted him. Sure, I never thought that either Power Station (who were too self-contained) or NEW! (who were too volatile and feuded with everyone, even Conny) had any kind of ownership or exclusive deal with Conny. But it was just so quick, the way that Achim and Moebie jumped on him, now that his was the fashionable sound to have. But Claudia seemed happy with her lover back in her little house, so who was I to object?

>>It's not really like that<< Michael insisted when I made some catty comment about Achim jumping on the Conny Plank bandwagon as we were scouting out new real estate. The lawyer's office downstairs from the Atelier had moved out, headed to a nice big hochhaus on the outskirts of town, and the landlord had rung up Myrthe, wanting to know if Weber und Schneider were at all interested in expanding into the space. Silke was very keen to expand - we would be having extra money coming in from the Biba commission, and she wanted to buy two new industrial sewing machines, and hire two new women to operate them. There simply was not the space upstairs, so she was quite keen to take over the lawyers' office, if it was available. 

Michael, however, was being purely opportunistic. He was still after a place to store his gear, and maybe do a bit of practising and recording, as NEW! were still doing the rounds of church basements and village halls, spaces that Klaus was rapidly getting them both barred from with his temper and his incessant swearing. If there were a suitable space downstairs, he told Silke that his band might chip in towards the rent. So we were investigating the new studio space together, and gossiping about Conny as we did so.

>>Conny doesn't really impose his sound on people<< he told me, as he walked about one of the offices, knocking on the walls to see which partitions could be easily removed. >>He's not like, well, Phil Spector or someone, where every band comes out sounding the same. After all, the NEW! record and the Power Station record don't sound a thing alike, do they.<<

>>Hmmm<< I cleared my throat to indicate my displeasure, a bad habit I had picked up from Flori. >>Well, this is not what Der Spiegel says.<<

Michael clucked his tongue in a way that indicated that he was as irritated as Ralf with the constant comparisons, though he was perhaps not as forthright about showing it. >>I do not agree at all. If we are anything alike, it is only because we had such affinity for traditional German harmonic structures before we even joined into one band. But with Conny's help, we have evolved quite separately. Do you think anyone would mind if we took this wall out? There is not the space to fit Klaus's complete drum kit in either room, but together they would be alright.<<

>>A drum kit?<< I asked, surprised. After all, there was a reason that Power Station rehearsed in an industrial space near the train station, where there were no neighbours to complain about the noise. >>Do you really think Myrthe will want Klaus bashing away below your bedroom?<<

>>There are two floor between us<< Michael pointed out. >>The sound of the sewing machines will quite likely drown out any stray notes. Conny taught us quite well, how to baffle our instruments so the sound does not travel. That, you see, is what Conny is the best at. He's like Beuys, really, no ego of his own, he just lives for the pedagogical. He does not impose his ideas on you, but he is like a midwife, trying to draw out the best ideas from the musicians he works with.<<

>>But Beuys totally does impose his ideas on people - I hadn't a political thought in my head before he started explaining social democracy and direct action in our classes. And now I go to demonstrations and Save The Trees rallies at least once a month! I'm not saying it's bad - it's opened my eyes completely. But every student who goes through that class comes out thinking like Beuys, in a lot of ways<< I countered.

>>Hmmm. Do you really think so?<< Michael stroked the soft fuzz of his chin, where he was trying to grow a beard, but I knew this was the most severe way he had of expressing disagreement that he was capable of. >>Have you ever even seen his art?<<

That stopped me sharp. >>Well... no. I keep meaning to go to one of his exhibitions, but he doesn't exactly publicise them, to the students, only the Kunstaktions. I'm sure the exhibitions themselves must be fairly advanced, and beyond us.<<

Michael shook his head. >>No, that's not the reason at all. They are very, very accessible. He does not invite us, because he wants us to develop our own ideas, rather than imitate his. Think about it. He doesn't understand computers at all - but he encourages you to work on your algorithms. And me - he told me that my draughtsmanship is just not up to scratch, so I am unlikely to ever make a good painter, but that I should paint with sound. It is he who encouraged me to take a painterly approach to my guitar's sound palette. So I go up to Hamburg and I tell Conny: I want to paint with sound. And most producers, if you told them that, they would look at you like you were mad and tell you to go away and come back when you had sorted yourself out. But not Conny. He just scratched his beard and thought about it for a bit, and then he started searching through his pieces of kit for ways to facilitate this. I'm sure he does not tell Ralf and Flori to paint with sound - oh no. Ralf and Flori come in and say they want to play like machines, and Conny thinks and scratches his beard and goes off and comes back with a different piece of kit so that Ralf and Flori can record their 'machine consciousness' and this is as different from 'painting with sound' as night from day, but Conny can do it all.<<

I stared at Michael, surprised, as this was quite possibly the longest piece of speech I had ever heard come out of our quiet housemate's mouth. Perhaps working with Conny had bolstered his confidence as well as his guitar sound.

>>I say... Silke?<< Michael went trotting off to where Silke was chatting with the landlord about a discount for renting the whole space. >>I like those two rooms at the back, but would it be possible to knock the dividing wall out, so I could have one large space?<<

The landlord looked at Michael with outright alarm. Silke and I, in our smart, fashionable clothes, we clearly looked alright as tenants, but Michael, with his long hair and his patched jeans, clearly horrified him. >>Oh no, this is no good. We were under the impression you were a design agency, very clean. We cannot have tenants knocking holes in the walls... No, no, this is very specifically against the terms of the lease.<<

But Silke took control of the situation in an instant. >>Sorry, Michael, we will not be able to sublet to you. I have already planned out those two room, one for fabric storage and the other for buttons, zippers and assorted haberdashery. You will have to find a studio elsewhere.<<

Poor Michael slumped his shoulders, but accepted it with the same even-tempered sigh he accepted everything else. And Weber und Schneider expanded from just the little attic Atelier, to take over the entire top of the building.

I didn't have much to do with the physical expansion of our space, as my looms were staying up in the attic with the winch, since they were too large to carry up and down the stairs. But Silke batted her eyelashes and twisted our landlord's arm into hiring an architect's office to work on the interior designer of fitting out the new space, as it would be a lot of physical labour transforming the space from a staid lawyer's office into the chic design centre she envisaged. And when the architect's office sent round their interior design apprentice to measure the space for the plans, my god, it was little Wolfgang Flür! He and Michael embraced warmly, and set to chatting away, and taking far too many cigarette breaks. Really, I hoped that timewasting was on the Architecture Firm's tab, not ours. I noticed Wolfgang, still, could not seem to keep himself from ogling the young women who streamed through the office, coming to interview for the new positions.

Yes! Weber und Schneider had started interviewing for actual, honest-to-god employees, seamstresses to work the industrial sewing machines that we had ordered for the new Atelier downstairs. At first we tried using girls from the school, as they were cheap and willing to work for the experience as much as the DM. But their quality was unreliable, and Myrthe often found herself completely picking out their seams and doing them again when we got to the styling phase of the operation. And even worse, too many of them had ideas about _designing_ , and started altering the patterns and completely messing up the designs. By halfway through the school term, we mostly gave up on the students - except one intern we employed to answer the phones and keep the storeroom in order - and hired two formidable Turkish women, Banu and her daughter Zaide, to run the industrial sewing machines. These two ladies were more expensive, but their seams were as straight as the Autobahn and Zaide's rare suggestions on the construction of clothes actually made the clothes hang better, and sew together more smoothly.

They were hard workers, and incredibly fast, halving our production time, so that we were actually able to meet the larger and larger orders that Johannes was bringing us, not just from the Kö and Biba, but from Paris! Evamaria, of all people, told me that her heart had nearly burst with pride, when she walked into one of the most chic and exclusive boutiques in Paris to buy a frock, and found a beautiful space-princess dress with the label _Weber und Schneider_ hanging on the wall!

>>I always knew you were destined for great things, Little Mouse<< she informed me regally, and asked when my visa expired, as if she now wanted to start planning the wedding. Who knows; maybe she had decided that I was worthy of her son after all, despite that odd conversation after my almost-wedding. 1977, I reminded her. It still felt like a long way off, and we were expanding so fast that who knew how big Weber und Schneider would be by then!

So Weber und Schneider were very lucky to have this much larger, and more spacious, and yet beautifully designed new space into which to put our new, larger company. Silke had a specific image in her mind, and she mercilessly bullied little Wolfgang (though he fluttered his eyelashes and flirted with her and told her he loved it when powerful women dominated him) and the interior decorators until she got it. The new studio was to be done out in space-age silver, and soft, warm dove-grey, with imperial purple accents. And yes, Silke was willing to fixate on the exact shade of dove-grey that she wanted, the same way that she fixated on getting every aspect of detailing correct on our clothes. The reception area and her office, she wanted dim and relaxing with pin-lights on the important areas, while the studios themselves had to be absolutely flooded with daylight or the most natural approximation thereof. She would tolerate absolutely no fluorescent lighting anywhere in the building, as she said it gave her a headache.

Even after the work on the new Atelier was finished, Wolfgang still used any excuse to come round and make sure that the walls were straight or ascertain that the doors had been hung correctly or even just check that the decor was to our liking. Service with a smile he called it, but really, he spent far too much time just hanging around pestering the young women. Even me, and I was practically married! It was too much when he gave me a flyer for a nightclub.

>>I'm playing drums with a band out in Mönchengladbach tonight<< he informed me with a wink. >>It's only a covers band, but it's free in the door with this flyer, and half price drinks for ladies all night.<<

>>Herr Flür<< I told him firmly, trying to hand back the flyer. >>You know perfectly well that I have a boyfriend.<<

>>So bring him<< shrugged Wolfgang, with a leer. >>You are all welcome to come<< he added, looking about office, his eyes lingering on Zaide, the younger of our pair of seamstresses, who I realised with a start, was actually young and quite attractive, despite her frumpy clothes.

>>We are strict Muslim; we do not drink<< said Banu with a scowl like a mama lion. Wolfgang made a sharp exit, and I thought that was the end of it, but Silke had picked up the flyer and was examining it with a smirk.

>>Oh why not. We should all go. It will be fun to get out of Düsseldorf, into the countryside.<< she shrugged, and turned to Myrthe.

Myrthe was in a strange mood, and just said >>Well why not. All work and no play, as they say.<<

>>You're not serious are you?<< I asked.

Silke's smirk had turned positively devilish. >>You know, Wolfgang is always pestering us girls, come and do this, come and see that, come and hear my band. I just want to know what, exactly, he would actually do, if one day we all turned up.<<

>>We should totally go<< agreed Myrthe with a mischievous grin.

>>But I'm meeting Flori later<< I protested.

>>So ring him and tell him to come!<< Silke insisted. >>Wolfgang knows your boyfriend is in Power Station. That's why he pesters you. He doesn't want to be an interior designer, he wants to be a musician, so he pesters not the musicians, but their girlfriends.<<

>>And what good does he think that will do?<< I protested. >>As if I have the slightest say over what Flori does or doesn't do? Flori is his own person. You know there is not a chance in hell of anyone getting Flori to do anything he doesn't want to do.<<

Myrthe actually burst out laughing. >>Jan, when Michael wants you and Flori to come to a party or go to a gig, what does he do?<<

I shrugged, failing to see the connection. >>He usually asks me when he sees me at art school.<<

>>And why do you think he does that?<< said Myrthe in a teasing tone.

>>I presume because he is still sensitive of being caught up in the stupid rivalry between Florian and that maniac Klaus.<<

Now Silke was laughing at me openly. >>OK, when Evamaria wants to summons you to family dinner, does she speak to her son, or does she speak to you?<<

I had to stop and think about that. Although I had initially been quite intimidated by Flori's family, over the past year, I had somehow become the one that managed our familial visits with the Schneider-Eslebens. Evamaria didn't ring and immediately ask for Flori any more; she arranged things with me, and then waited for me to pass her over to her son. >>Well<< I said quietly. >>It's just easier to arrange family matters woman to woman.<<

Myrthe had joined in with the laughter, as both she and Silke seemed to be mocking me now. >>Jan, everyone knows that if you want Flori to do something, the trick is to ask you. Even Heidi... even Emil knows this<< she said, rapidly changing the name with a glance at Silke. >>We all know that it is you that manages Flori, not the other way around.<<

>>I'm not his secretary<< I said, not entirely sure why the conversation was annoying me so much.

>>But you are his wife<< said Silke with an air of finality, the mirth dropping out of her voice. >>Wolfgang didn't ask you because he's after _you_ , you ninny - he asked you because he's after Flori and Ralf. But can you imagine his face, if Flori and Ralf actually turned up?<<

I couldn't believe she was seriously considering it. >>You're honestly going to drag us, all the way out to some stupid bar out in the suburbs, just to wind up little Wolfgang Flür?<<

>>Well, not just that<< sighed Silke. >>It's Friday night, and I'm frankly quite tired of being cooped up indoors. We've been working too hard, getting the collection finished. Let's get out of town and go dancing to celebrate. Not somewhere achingly cool in stupid Düsseldorf, where everyone will be staring at us, but somewhere absolutely unhip, where no one knows who we are, and we can just get drunk and make fools of ourselves. Just ring Flori and tell them to meet us there.<<

>>But there is no phone at Mintropstrasse<< I hedged, which was a bit of a lie. Actually, I had seen that there was one out in the hall. But Flori - who disliked phones on principle, having spent much of the past year fielding phone calls at the flat that were meant for his father (their voices did sound very alike, over the phone, so much so that architectural clients, upon hearing Flori's voice on the line, would sometimes launch into technical specifications as soon as they heard the words "Schneider-Esleben") - refused to answer it. If I needed to get hold of him while he was working at the studio, I had learned the habit of ringing the cafe on the corner where the band always went for coffee breaks, and asking if they could pass on a message to >>the tall, thin musician, with the very pointed nose, who always orders cheesecake and double espresso.<<

In the end, I had my arm twisted into going to see Wolfgang's new band, so I left a message at the cafe, and piled into Myrthe and Michael's car. Michael, I think, went out of loyalty to his friend and former bandmate, while Myrthe and Silke just wanted to get drunk and dance. It was only a 20 minutes drive out of Düsseldorf, but true to Wolfgang's word, there was free entry and the drinks were absurdly cheap.

Wolfgang's band were, predictably, not particularly good, just playing standard American dance tunes with a female singer pretending to be Tina Turner or Diana Ross as the song required. But after the heady, incestuous scene of the Altstadt, where Ralf and I could not even meet for a quiet drink without rumours going around about Power Station, it was a blessed relief to go somewhere no one knew who we were. After a year spent trying to be well-regarded musicians and famous fashion designers, trying to make a name for ourselves by being Faces in the fashionable clubs of Düsseldorf, it was actually exciting to be nobodies again, albeit nobodies who raised the eyebrows of the locals with our slightly-too-stylish clothes.

About half an hour into the set, Flori and Ralf and Ralf's then-girlfriend - oh, Inga or Ingrid or something or other - did actually turn up, looking incredibly out of place and slightly awkward in the tacky student bar. I realised as I looked at them, that Ralf in his leathers and Flori in his beloved satin trousers no longer looked like the awkward pair of students that I had first met a year and a half previously. They looked like the kind of people who went on the television. Ingrid, though, was yet another naive 18 year old art school girl with big, innocent blue eyes and a slightly turned-up nose. Although she had had long, dishwater blonde hair parted straight down the middle when she first appeared on our scene, soon after hanging about with Silke and I, this had been tinted bright blonde, and cropped in a 1920s bob. This had made me feel very strange, for reasons I couldn't quite put my finger on, though Silke had laughed at me.

>>Look, I know it's a sign of our success as designers, that people have started to copy our looks, but this... I don't know. It bothers me<< I confessed, as Silke and I went together to the bar.

But Silke laughed her most wicked laugh. >>Oh, Jan. You're so naive you don't even know what's going on. It's not even fashion in this case. Ralf has stopped trying to make over his little teenage girlfriends in the image of himself. He is now making them over in the image of _you_. <<

>>That's not true, and it isn't funny<< I told her coldly, picking up Flori's and my drinks, and walking away. Silke always had a slight cruel streak, and I did not appreciate her teasing me about Ralf, now that we were finally getting along.

Flori and I decided to make the best of the evening, and had a dance or two to some of the more upbeat numbers, but Ralf sat in a corner booth with Ingrid and sulked.

>>Oh come on<< I teased, as we re-joined them, with another round of half-price drinks. >>You could try and pretend you're having a good time.<<

>>I do not like this place<< Ralf grumbled. >>The music is terrible, the crowd are completely un-stylish and the drinks, although cheap, are very poor in quality.<<

>>The band are not so bad<< Ingrid offered, as she obviously had not yet been taught not to contradict her boyfriend, and Ralf glared at her.

Flori turned to watch them for a bit. They had slackened the pace to play a few ballads, so couples could slow-dance. The singer didn't really have enough of a voice to carry off a torch song, and it was clear that she was having trouble hearing herself in the monitor, sticking her finger in her ear to sing. But Wolfgang, to be fair, dropped the volume, and was playing his kit very softly to try to give her a hand, gesturing to the guitarist to give her some space.

>>You know, he is not a bad drummer<< Flori observed, sipping his drink.

>>Flür? Come on, he's a Neanderthal<< snorted Ralf.

>>He is not, you know.<< countered Flori. >>He has a great sensitivity of touch. The test of a drummer is not how loud or how fast he can play, but how quietly, and how slowly. This song...<< He thrust out his hand to view his wristwatch. >>...it's a very slow tempo, maybe only 80 bpm. It's hard to play this slowly and not speed up. But listen to him. He is like a metronome, absolutely on the beat.<<

Ralf, intrigued, pulled back his sleeve to reveal his own watch. >>Hmmm. It seems you are right.<<

>>So he is not a Neanderthal, after all. He is a minimalist<< said Flori, with a triumphant grin.

But Ralf's face twisted into a wry but affectionate scowl. >>Do not even think of asking what I know you are thinking of asking.<<

>>It's not a bad idea<< suggested Flori with a twinkle to his eye.

>>Yes, it is, it's a terrible idea. I do not want to have to fight to hear myself over a live drummer, even again, and I know you, Flori, you work best when you do not have flying drumstools aimed at your ear. No more drummers. None.<<

But the rhythm had picked up again for the next song, and Flori extended his hand to me, pulling me up to dance again. My head was swimming with the cheap gin, but I swear I could see Silke dancing by herself at the side of the stage, quite obviously aware of the eyes of every man in the hall on her shapely body. I knew Silke was very beautiful - with her doll-like face and her huge eyes, she was often compared to the film actress Hanna Shygulla - but I have to admit I was still shocked and slightly annoyed by the ease with which she enjoyed showing off her beautiful figure. Even Wolfgang had actually noticed her, though to be fair, despite the surprise on his face, he did not drop a beat.

We left before the end of the sight, as Ralf was complaining about having to drop us in Golzheim then backtrack to Krefeld. To be honest, I did not want to stay and watch Silke make a fool over herself over that stupid drummer, so I went without a fuss, Flori and I squashed together in the back of that familiar Volkswagen, though now it did not matter if we kissed and cuddled as much as we liked in the back seat. I didn't even need to ask if he remembered that night in Langenfeld; the spark in his eye and the amused curl to his lip told me he did as we spread his coat over our knees and snuggled underneath.

Ingrid smiled at us over her shoulder, fixing her newly cropped hair with a bobby-pin. >>You two are such a cute couple that you give me hope. You make me believe that true-love actually exists.<<

Ralf said nothing, but glanced wistfully at us in the rear-view mirror.

By the next Friday, we were back to drinking at the Creamcheese Club. Silke and I went for a drink at the Mata Hari after work, looking for Johannes, but he was nowhere to be found, so we finished our Sekt, ignoring the customary whispers and glances of the regular clientele, and walked back through the Altstadt. But when we walked into the Creamcheese, the atmosphere felt strange. People were looking at us - well, to be honest, people were always looking at Silke and I, since photos of us wearing Weber und Schneider dresses were constantly in the local colour supplements advertising the trendy Kö Boutique. But these did not feel like admiring glances, they felt like people were laughing at us. It made me long for the anonymity of Mönchengladbach again.

But the mystery became more apparent when we went to the bar to order a bottle of wine. The barmaid smirked at us, raising her eyebrows salaciously. >>You must work up a great thirst, servicing the hard-working drummers of the world.<<

>>Drummers?<< I asked, handing her the money. >>What drummers? My lover plays the flute.<<

>>Oh, it's not you that has been running around with Wolfgang Flür, then? Because he says...<< and here she dropped her voice to a stage whisper. >>...those haughty Weber und Schneider models are not quite so snooty when they are blowing on his pipe.<<

>>Wolfgang Flür?!<< I exploded, outraged. >>As if I would pollute myself with that chicken, when I have steak at home!<<

But Silke said nothing, merely smirking back at the barmaid as she took the bottle, leaving me fussing and fuming over the change. >>Well!<< announced the barmaid. >>That's as good as an admission.<<

>>Wolfgang is a liar<< I spat. <I never did!<<

>>Not you; her.<< said the barmaid, nodding her head curtly at Silke.

>>Gossip is for small minds<< I told her, turned on my heel and stalked back to the table that Silke had staked out. Soon, Flori and Ralf and Ingrid joined us, and the night started to turn quite merry.

But, when Johannes finally joined us, his normally blandly handsome face was like a stormcloud, and the mood turned dark. >>Silke, darling<< he broached, reaching across the table and helping himself to a glass of our wine. >>You know that I do not mind if you entertain yourself in private, but I know for certain that I asked you to be _discreet_. <<

>>Discreet?<< asked Silke icily, as silence fell across the table. >>Perhaps you could teach me about discreet.<<

>>You know that I do not care what you get up to, but when I am told, by a _bartender_ , that my girlfriend has been laying the pipe with Wolfgang Flür, that, really, is a bit much.<< Johannes' voice was quiet, but with a cutting, slightly catty edge to it.

>>Well<< said Silke quite breezily. >>Don't you think it's better to give gossip to a bartender, than a blow-job?<< And then her eyes flashed, as she glanced across the table. >>Or giving blow-jobs to Ralf Hütter in the ladies' toilet... honestly, Johannes, I thought the deal was, you keep your hands off my friends!<<

>>What?<< exploded Ingrid, looking back and forth between Silke and her unfaithful boyfriend, who, I noticed, did not try to hide anything, his face slowly turning bright red. Unsteadily, she climbed to her feet. >>You filthy little so-and-so! You disgust me, Hütter. We are through!<< And with this, she picked up her almost-full glass of wine and dashed it into his face, then picked up her coat and fled.

Ralf just sat there for a minute, licking wine off his lips, as Johannes and Silke eyed one another coolly across the table. But it was Johannes who broke first, sighing deeply and handing his serviette across to Ralf. >>Touché<< he said calmly. And then just as deftly, he changed the subject. >>My Mother thinks that we should be married in the Summer. More chance of coverage in the Society papers.<<

Silke smiled tightly, with an air of triumph. >>I can design a more daring wedding dress, and bridesmaids gowns, for a summer wedding.<<

But Johannes tutted and clicked his tongue. >>No, no, no. It has already been agreed. Ossie Clark will design both the dress, and the suits. Maybe you can help with the bridesmaids' dresses, but it will have to be a Celia Birtwell fabric, to match the Bridal Gown.<<

Pursing her lips, Silke swallowed audibly. >>But I wanted to use Jan's Electronic Edelweiss design for the bridesmaid's dresses. It will be good publicity for us.<<

>>No, think bigger picture, Silke, my dear. Making an alignment with designers as reputable as Ossie and Celia will do wonders for your reputation...<<

>>And wonders for your distribution company, if you can persuade them to give you an exclusive deal for the German market, but not so great for Weber und Schneider, I think<< retorted Silke, as calmly as if they were discussing a business merger, rather than a wedding - which I suppose in a way, they were.

But before they could start to discuss the distribution business, we were interrupted by the appearance of Emil, who was quite incredibly actually holding hands with Heidi. >>Hallo, Hallo<< he announced, looking pleased as punch as he stepped back and removed her coat for her before sitting down. >>How is everybody this beautiful evening?<<

Silke fixed him with a positively poisonous gaze. >>We are planning the outfits for my wedding, if you must know.<<

For a moment, the pair of them looked at one another, and though a tiny muscle flickered in the hollow of Emil's jaw, he managed to cover it with a grin. >>So you are getting married? Congratulations, Silke. My best wishes to Wolfgang, and I'm sure you will make a fine wife for an unknown covers band.<<

>>I'm marrying Johannes<< Silke said icily.

>>Oh, my mistake<< said Emil breezily, then turned to Heidi with a grandiose air. >>My darling, may I have the honour of buying you a drink?<<

>>Yes please, I'll just have a glass of wine. Whatever Power Station are drinking<< said Heidi, gesturing towards the near-empty bottle of wine on the table.

>>Shall I buy another bottle, then?<< Emil announced, all smiles.

>>Hear, hear<< said Flori, pushing his empty glass forward, while Ralf looked like he had lost his taste for drink, since his shirt and hair were soaked with it.

I looked back and forth between Heidi and Emil, confused, but Silke leaned forward to whisper cattily into my ear, as she moved up to make room for our new arrivals. >>So it seems Heidi has consented to actually go out with Emil, now that he has joined Power Station...<<

>>Emil's not in Power Station<< I protested, but Ralf nodded emphatically, looking very pleased with himself.

>>Oh, yes he is, now. Emil is our new art director, he says that he is going to design the album cover, and in fact, come up with the whole design package for our next record. He has some very brilliant ideas - posters, graphics, perhaps even doing a whole comic book about the lives and musical statements of Power Station. We think he is a quite valuable addition to the group, don't we, Flori?<<

>>Indeed<< agreed Flori, though he did not look me in the face, making me wonder what the three of them were up to.


	45. Stardust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weber und Schneider start to attract some serious attention, standing out even from the bustling Düsseldorf design scene.
> 
> And Power Station tour Germany, as the summer of 1972 heats up, between the threat of terrorist violence, and two very special records that go off like bombs in the minds of all the hear them.

As if denied the change to exercise her design skills for her own wedding, Silke threw herself into designing the 1972 Autumn / Winter collection with renewed energy. She planned on doubling the size of the previous order, not just in the number of garments to be assembled, but the number of designs that would be available. She designed woollen suits that would work with either trousers or a flattering slim-line pencil skirt. Shirts in three different patterns - including the Electronic Edelweiss she had hoped to use for her bridesmaids dresses - with or without wide, floppy bows that could double as scarves when the weather turned cold. And to top it off, there was a small selection of dresses that ranged from casual to office to formal wear.

It was an ambitious plan; not something we could ever have even attempted to assemble in that attic Atelier that had once seemed so spacious, but was now hopelessly too small for anything but my looms. Even with six people working flat out, it was going to be a stretch.

But the clothes, oh, they were so beautiful! I knew I was one of those precious artists who always thought that their latest work was the best, but that 1972 collection really was one of the most stylish and flattering. I kept one of the suits and a couple of the dresses for myself and wore them for nearly 10 years before they started to get a bit shabby. Silke was at her most inspired, my textiles were so lively, and Myrthe and Zaide used every trick of their artisans' techniques to transform our fanciful drawings into physical objects we could wear, or rather, float down the street in. Because these were not clothes for trudging about in, they truly were clothes that encouraged you to sort of waft about glamourously.

Helmut took some photos of me wafting about in them, looking like a willowy sort of sylph according to Flori, though I felt really quite creeped out by the poses that Helmut asked me to strike. It wasn't enough that he wanted me to look haughty - even provoking me to look angry on occasion by winding me up with his harsh words - but that he liked me to strike poses that looked ever so slightly domineering, in a sexual way. The contrast between the sylphlike, feminine clothes, and the aggressively sexy poses was startling, and I had to admit that the photos were exciting and eye-catching, but posing like that made me feel uncomfortable, maybe even exploited. I just did not _like_ having my photo taken by Helmut.

But Johannes took the promo photos down to Paris to drum up interest, and in the end, despite my reservations about the man, all of Johannes' networking and schmoozing and making the right connections did actually pay off. Because French Vogue - _Parisian_ Vogue! - sent someone across to Düsseldorf to do a feature on Weber und Schneider, and interview us.

I was terrified, and probably talked complete nonsense, but Silke was very smooth and very professional and said all of the right things and dropped the right references because the Parisian journalist was most impressed with us. Watching the way that she took control of the interview, I found myself almost in awe of her. No one ever expected a girl that pretty to be as sharp as she was, but as I watched Silke exercise her cool intelligence, she both charmed and dazzled, but also gently managed our visiting writers, without their realising what she was doing.

Although I had hoped that Vogue would actually pay for some proper models to really show off the clothes, Helmut had been commissioned to do the photos, and he was quite insistent: it was part of the whole mythos that _the_ Weber and _the_ Schneider were the faces that fronted their own brand. So despite my discomfort with him, Silke and I put the dresses on, and stuck haughty poses in some of the more recognisable locations in Düsseldorf to provide local flavour. At least it showed that the clothes worked as well in the dark wonderland of the Wunderbar as they did in the hallowed halls of the Tonhalle.

When the magazine came out, we all rushed down to the big newsagent near the train station that stocked all of the international editions of magazines, and bought several copies. Returning to the Atelier where our friends and boyfriends had gathered to congratulate us, I stared at my own face in the hallowed pages of Vogue, tracing the lines of clothes I had designed the textiles for, and helped to sew, and felt almost too strange to bother translating the article.

>>Aaiieee<< squealed Myrthe, who was already ahead of me. >>This is wonderful. They absolutely love us. I mean, not just us; the whole piece is like a love letter to Düsseldorf, West Germany's Design City, with its culture and its music and its art scene, of which it says we are at the swirling centre. Oh my goodness, Jan, did you ever hear of such a thing. It's a wonder we don't get dizzy from centrifugal force, with all this swirling we are doing.<<

Myrthe's voice was slightly mocking, but Silke took on a more reverential tone as she translated. >>The hot new designers have links with the serious Avant-Guard of West Germany's new cultural scene, as all three have studied at the Düsseldorf Kunstakademie, as students as the charismatic and shamanistic Joseph Beuys. Well, only two of you were students of Beuys, but never mind.<< But her face rumpled into a slight frown as she read the next bit aloud in French. "Two of the designers have personal connections to the exciting new _Kosmische_ music scene in West Germany. Jan Schneider is the partner of Florian Schneider-Esleben of Kraftwerk, composers of the renowned radio-anthem _Ruckzuck_ while Myrthe Van Alst steps out with the guitar-player from the exciting new musical group NEU!" She paused before slipping back into German.  >>Well. That's a bit gossipy, don't you think?<<

>>I don't mind<< piped up Flori, blushing slightly and dropping his eyes so that his pale eyelashes brushed his cheeks. >>It's quite nice to have it be known that I have won the affections of one of the most talented and successful - not to mention beautiful - designers in all of West Germany.<< The way that he looked at me after he said that, all pride and desire and adoration mingled together on his face, it made me feel a hundred times better than anything that Parisian Vogue ever printed about our clothes.

>>They don't mention Johannes<< grumbled Silke.

>>That's probably for the best, if we don't want accusations that we slept our way into the contracts we've won with Parisian boutiques<< Myrthe said quietly, but I think it came out a little more sharply than she intended.

Silke's gaze was positively poisonous. >>Do _you_ think that we slept our way into our contracts? Or do you think that our 'original, whimsical, and yet seriously glamourous designs' got us that far? << she demanded.

>>Don't ask me. I haven't stepped out with anyone except the guitar-player of the exciting new musical group, NEW!<< laughed Myrthe, looking down at Michael, still in his pyjamas, his hair a tangled mass slipping out of its ponytail and into his eyes as he tried to eat his breakfast.

>>Hmmm<< said Michael, with a contemplative expression. >>It is funny, though, that they cannot interview you lot without mentioning who your boyfriends are. But when they interview NEW! they say boring things about whose rhythm section we used to be, but never mention anything about how I am sleeping with the original, whimsical, and yet seriously glamourous Myrthe from the hot new design firm, Weber und Schneider.<<

It was clearly Michael's idea of a joke, but Silke's face darkened. >>That's because women are always defined by their male partners, but men are never defined by the women they sleep with, except perhaps as a status object.<<

>>Oh, so you have been sneaking in to Beuys' lectures after all. Because that is the exact same argument that Heidi was making the other week.<< Michael laughed.

Heidi was exactly the _wrong_ person to mention to Silke, who pulled herself up to her full height and glared at Michael. Michael was not very tall to start with, but he seemed to shrink before her.  >>It is a complimentary piece<< she said in a voice that was tight with anger. >>But it is only the start. If anyone wants me, I'll be in my office.<<

Florian didn't pay her much mind, holding up the magazine sideways to a slightly risque photo of me in a gauzy dress. Bloody Helmut had tricked me into standing, backlit against one of the Tonhalle windows, so that the curves of my body, my knickers, and even a hint of my nipples, were quite visible through the sheer fabric. >>Very nice.<< he said appreciatively. >>Do you think you could put on this dress for me when you get home?<<

I had hated the photo, but I liked the sound of admiration and lust in my lover's voice. >>I can put it on for you right now, if you like, my love<< I told him and walked over to clasp my arms around his neck and kiss the top of his head as he perused the magazine.

>>Well, I am proud of the piece<< announced Myrthe. >>I think you both look fabulous, and the company came across well.<<

>>Can I see that a moment?<< asked Michael with an uncharacteristic curiosity to his voice.

>>No, no, get your own<< asserted Flori, and closed the magazine, as Myrthe reached out and playfully slapped the hand her boyfriend had extended to take it.

The summer of 1972 got off to a simmering start. In June, after a two-year manhunt and escalating bomb attacks and bank robberies, the police finally caught Andreas Baader at a shoot-out in Frankfurt and broke up the Red Army Faction. This polarised the ring-discussions in Beuys' class. The hard-line radicals declared him a folk hero and debated whether to take up collections for his legal fund, and talked idly of forming a conspiracy to bust him out of jail and hijack a plane and fly him to Cuba. I saw Beuys frown at the turn this discussion was taking, and noted it carefully, as the man had come to be so influential as to almost define my political beliefs that year, but he was very careful not to take sides or influence the debate. The Peaceniks and the anti-violence campaigners mounted a vociferous rebuttal. Baader and his gang had resorted to violence and terrorism, and for that, they were just as bad as The Pigs, and deserved each other. As the War in Vietnam dragged on, the peace movement seemed to splinter and had to take care not to just turn on one another.

And two weeks later, that frizzy-haired, snaggle-toothed theatre student that had so captivated Valerie and me in an arts cafe in Beckenham released _Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars_. Flori, knowing how much I loved David Bowie, had ordered a copy on import, and asked Heidi to ring the house the moment that the shipment came in. I don't think it's really possible to express what it was like to hear that record for the first time, aged 20, lying in bed, on the top floor of a tower block in West Germany. That record went off like a bomb in my mind. From the opening slow, sexy samba-beat of Five Years, through to the torch song of It Ain't Easy, turning over the record in a kind of daze, to hear that magnificent second side, Lady Stardust to the sucker punch of Suffragette City... and oh god, no, just when you thought it was over, it wasn't over, there was Rock'N'Roll Suicide to leave you all shaken up and broken down and I was crying but smiling through my tears and laughing with delight all at once, until I looked up to see Flori looking at me very, very oddly.

>>You hate it<< I said, trying to pull myself back together. Flori kind of tolerated my crush on David Bowie, because, after all, he really did quite like Space Oddity and thought Life On Mars was alright, even if Ch-Ch-Changes was quite irritating and really the namedropping on Andy Warhol and Song For Bob Dylan and Queen Bitch was perhaps a little excessive. Because Flori didn't really get crushes, and he certainly never suffered from hero worship. Flori was his own hero. But that record had absolutely completely knocked me flat, and yet Flori was just sitting there smiling mysteriously.

>>I don't hate it.<< he shrugged. >>It's actually quite good. I really like his star-man motif, like the astronaut in his tin-can came back to earth and brought some of his cosmic new friends.<<

>>You actually like it?<< I half giggled. We had been together a year and a half and he still had the capacity to surprise me.

>>I do. But do you know who would love this record?<< he said, with that mischievous grin spreading across his lips. >>Ralf would love this record. He likes pop music and he likes art music, and this truly is both.<< He got up and went over to the telephone, and rang round - Ralf's father's house in Krefeld, his girlfriend's flat, Emil's apartment on the Berger Allee - until he got hold of him, and told him to come round, as soon as he could.

Ralf arrived about 20 minutes later, a little out of breath. >>What is it, what's the emergency?<< he demanded.

>>You need to hear the new David Bowie album<< Flori told him.

>>David Bowie?<< Ralf asked, pushing his glasses up his nose with a confused expression. >>I mean, he's alright, but he's no Iggy and the Stooges.<<

I said nothing, I just put the needle on the record, watching Ralf's face carefully as Flori sat down in his favourite armchair and started to roll a joint.

>>Hmmm<< said Ralf, trying very hard to sound unimpressed. Ralf, unlike Flori, was rather prone to hero worship, but always tried to pretend that he wasn't. But a few minutes later as the record unfolded, he started to look more alert. >>Hmmm, who is the guitarist he's working with on this?<<

I picked up the album cover and read through the credits. >>It's still Mick Ronson.<<

>>He's very good. Sounds like he's been taking lessons from Ron Asheton.<< By the end of the first side, his eyes were huge. >>This is nearly as good as the Stooges.<<

We played it over and over for the rest of the day. The next day, Ralf went down to Heidi's record shop, and bought his own copy. She smirked at him and pulled another record out from under the counter. >>If you like that, you should probably get this, as well.<< And she held out an album cover depicting a pin-up girl sprawled across white bed-sheets. >>Roxy Music. I am _sooo_ in love with their synth player. Captain Eno - he is out of this world! You will like them, Ralf, I guarantee, or your money back. <<

He was back at our flat that afternoon, wanting to listen to this other strange, twisted art-rock record on Flori's and my expensive stereo. By the end of the week, I think the same bomb had gone off in Ralf's head that had gone off in mine. Ralf was growing disenchanted with totally abstract, freeform, exploratory improvisational music. He had not fallen out of love with minimalism, not by a long-shot. But he wanted to make short, sharp, minimalist art-rock tunes, as beamed-from-outer-space as those two records were, but not in an English style; in a German style.

Ralf had never taken a hard-line against pop music, not the way that Flori had. He still loved the Beach Boys and his old Jan and Dean records, though he would never have admitted it in front of his arty Creamcheese Club friends. These two new English records showed him that it _was_ possible to make catchy, engaging pop music that was also avant-guard and was also art. But how to do this in a minimalist, German, machine-music way? It seemed an impossible task, but something changed in Ralf that summer that made him want to try.

Over the next month, they went off to tour the Power Station 2 record through Germany. Flori put his foot down, and insisted that I come along. Though Ralf initially was, I think, slightly annoyed at this, he soon realised that Flori, who was by nature a bit of a home-body househusband, and did not particularly like travelling, was calmer, and happier, and willing to stay on tour for longer, if I was constantly by his side. I knew Flori very well by this point, having lived with him for nearly 2 years, and had grown to know, intuitively, the kinds of things that upset him, and how to smooth them over.

Flori, despite or maybe because of being a very creative and highly strung, sensitive young man, liked his routines, and disliked surprises. Unexpected situations, which other musicians quickly learned to ride out, would upset and unsettle Flori for days afterwards. When we were away from home, the slightest deviation from the familiar became very distressing to him - I once saw him work himself nearly into a tizzy at soundcheck because the rack for his flutes had been moved to the right of his fold-up chair, rather than to the left. And yes, the fold-up chair he used in the studio had to go with us everywhere, because god help us all if the chair he sat in onstage was not at exactly the right height and he had to slouch down to blow his flute into the microphone. Flori, the son of the man who had recently designed one of the most popular chairs in Germany, was _very_ particular about what he sat in, and did not like to perform if it wasn't exactly right. So I knew it was very important to establish routines for Flori, and stick to them, giving him a familiar base from which to encounter the normal tribulations of touring.

One of the biggest challenges for Flori was always sleep. Flori just did not sleep well in unfamiliar settings, he tossed and turned and could not settle. And if Flori had not slept adequately, his behaviour, already odd, became more and more erratic. The unpredictable and irascible Mr Hyde appeared with far more regularity than the cool, detached Dr Jeckyll, if Flori got less than six or seven hours of sleep for a few nights in a row. But if I was in the bed, he said it smelled more like home, and he would settle down and drift off more quickly. It wasn't even about sex, as if we had a place to stay, it was always shared with Ralf, meaning that our rare private moments of intimacy had to be snatched carefully. It was just about familiarity.

And food, in particular, I found could be a particularly comforting or distressing thing to Flori. At home, he always cooked, as he found it relaxing, and he liked the predictability of having the same food always on the same day of the week. But on tour this wasn't possible, so I tried to make sure he got to have the same thing for breakfast and for supper, no matter where we were. I knew he was particularly fond of Indian food, so as soon as we got into a new town, I would look up in the phone book where the Indian restaurant nearest the venue was, and take him there. If he could have his Bhindi Bhaji and saffron rice before the show, then the performance would be a good one, as far as he was concerned. For years afterwards, when Flori picked up an awkward habit of absconding from gigs he didn't want to play, I reminded Emil to go and check the nearest Indian restaurant, and there, more often than not, they would find Flori sitting, quietly staring at a dish of curried ladyfingers.

This tour was, in many ways, a family affair. Emil, too, got himself invited along on the tour as "stage manager" as well as "art director", since school had broken up for the summer and he had nothing better to do. I think Ralf enjoyed having Emil along as much as Flori enjoyed having Peter, as the two of them talked about art incessantly. The four - or five of us if Peter was along! - crowded merrily into that Volkswagen as if it were a family holiday, dragging their trailer full of electronic gear up and down the Autobahns of West Germany all summer long.

With the characteristic enthusiasm that made him a good tutor, Emil encouraged Ralf in his artistic ideas, on those long, endless drives up and down the motorways. The two of them sat in the front, Ralf talking and Emil starting to work on ideas for the next album cover. It was in that Beetle that the idea really took off, of doing a comic book, describing the life of Power Station, to accompany the next LP. Ralf kept trying to encourage Emil to join them onstage, playing guitar or violin to take some of the work off Flori, but Emil, despite what he had told Heidi, remained a far better painter than he ever was a musician. He was fine at making a racket with friends in the back room of a club, but those huge stages that Power Station played on, they were too much for his limited musical talents. Poor Emil! Ralf never did stop pestering him, for the next two years.

I knew a lot of music fans had been hoping that Power Station would select their former rhythm section, NEW!, to accompany them on tour, as for the alternative scene of young Germany, this would have been as much a dream-team combination as the earlier Can / Power Station dates of the previous year. I knew this was never going to happen, yet still, I was surprised when I found out that Cluster had been asked to support them. To be honest, though, I detected Claudia's hand in this, as she wanted her brother to keep half an eye on Hans-Joachim. She really was besotted with that man, in a way that I never saw Claudia bend herself out of shape over anyone or anything, before or after. If the bands played within a reasonable drive of Hamburg, Claudia would turn up, really making it really feel like an extended family holiday. Flori, I know, enjoyed her company and just really liked seeing a familiar face from home, but Hans-Joachim perhaps found it a bit much. He was, after all, considerably older than us, and I think he had grown accustomed to far more personal space than Claudia thought appropriate in a relationship.

Trying to keep myself busy, I appointed myself the tour photographer. I had enough photos of the lads onstage, but for me it was more fun to take candid photos of them between gigs, in the car, just skylarking around with the friends they were making across Germany. We took so many Polaroids in those days! We ended up with boxes full of them; I wonder sometimes what happened to them all. Flori decided to make the best out of the travelling he hated by collecting funny postcards, and sending them off to all his friends back home. What he liked best of all was to make amusing collages, using photos of himself and Ralf clipped from my polaroids, and gluing them into scenes of rural Germany. His parents got postcards, his sisters got postcards, Silke and Myrthe and Michael got postcards, and just for a wind-up, he decided to send Klaus a particularly amusing postcard, with a cartoon Klaus drawn in between cut-outs of Ralf and Flori, kicking Ralf up the backside.

I had thought this would antagonise the irascible drummer, but it had completely the opposite effect! I discovered later that Klaus thought it was hilarious, and went around Düsseldorf showing everyone. Relations thawed between the two bands, and when they played at the same festival, later that summer, Klaus actually came along with Michael to watch Power Station, and though obviously no apology would ever be forthcoming, he walked up to Flori afterwards and complimented him on the set, as if no drum stools had ever been thrown. Klaus was just a very strange and mercurial man, and though nobody ever held a grudge quite like him, I think he realised it was time to make peace with Flori. Flori was perhaps a little suspicious at first, but the town really wasn't big enough for a war, and he was relieved to let the antagonism drop.

Because we didn't have a lot of money for hotels, we would try to just drive home if we were within a few hours of Düsseldorf. If we were coming from the North, we often just drove back to Florian's parents house. They were away for much of the summer, and it was much easier to tow the trailer full of gear into the garage, and lock it inside than go through the hassle of unloading at Minstropstrasse and then having to reload it the next morning, because, although there was an enclosed courtyard there, it was shared with half a dozen other workshops and wasn't very secure.

However, we hadn't actually thought through the logistics of driving a trailer full of longhaired hippies back to a suburban house that was supposed to be unoccupied in the middle of the night - especially a vehicle full of really dodgy looking electronic equipment! One night, after Flori and I had gone to bed, Ralf and Emil sat up smoking a spliff on the balcony in preparation of a midnight swim.

Flori and I woke to shrieks and mysterious bangs, and made our way sleepily downstairs to find Emil, Peter and Ralf, all three of them with their hands up, shaking with fear, surrounded by a team of Special Police all pointing rifles at them. >>They just came up over the balcony and poured into the house like rats!<< Emil told us afterwards.

After a very tense twenty minutes, Florian did manage to establish that he was the son of the house's owners, following a very irate midnight phone call to his father in the summer house in the South of France.

>>Can't be too careful<< declared the bulletproof-vested policeman, finally putting his gun away. >>We had complaints from the neighbours, of dodgy-looking young people coming and going, all hours of the night, with all kinds of strange electronic equipment. Might be for making bombs, you never know.<<

>>Our equipment is for making _music_ << Flori explained, and took them downstairs to show them the trailer, still full of their synthesisers and speaker cabinets.

>>Ah, you are musicians. That would explain all the coming and going, late at night<< said the policeman, as if the penny was finally dropping. >>We thought we had another nest of the Red Army Faction.<< As they exited the garage, Flori looked up and saw the lights on in the neighbouring house, and the worried occupants looking down at them with fear. Beaming widely, Flori gave a huge grin as he looked back up at them and waved. The curtains shut pretty quickly.

>>I am sorry to disappoint you<< said Flori. He thought the whole thing was hilarious - probably because neither of us had actually been frisked and patted down at gunpoint, unlike Ralf and Emil, who were both still shaking in their leather kecks. To look at the pair of them, shy, mild-mannered Ralf, and gentle, fun-loving Emil, and try to imagine them as terrorists? The very idea seemed absurd, even at the time. But looking back at the early 70s, which seem such an innocent time in retrospect, the violence and the terror always seemed to be lurking somewhere beneath the surface of bright, modern West Germany.


	46. Occupation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autumn 1972. The dismissal of Professor Beuys from the Kunstakademie provokes a wave of protest from the students, in which Jan is caught up.
> 
> Florian becomes obsessed with Silent Cinema. And Ralf, believe it or not, falls in love again.

In Autumn of 1972, I started my third year at the Kunstakademie, and I was rather excited at my new duties, now that I was considered to be one of the more senior students. It was my turn to become a tutor, and help out the professor in one of the first year textile classes, so I was full of ideas of how to engage these bright new youngsters who would be turning up, and expose them to the ideas that I had found so breath-taking.

I was terrified of the responsibility, but Emil assured me it would be fine, and gave me tips on how to engage young people. >>Just remember that they are the experts in their own lives and their own art. If you teach them well, then _you_ will end up learning as much from the class as they do. << He sounded just like Beuys when he talked like that, but I supposed no one could really be properly taught by Beuys without absorbing his ideas. I wondered, on the other hand, what Beuys must have absorbed from _us_.

But when I went to the lecture hall, expecting to be inspired and thrilled by one of Beuys' ring-discussions, I found the hall locked, with a chain on the door, and gangs of students milling around outside looking very disgruntled. I found Michael, but he didn't know anything. Then Emil appeared, caught my eye, and gestured for us to follow him upstairs.

>>What's going on?<< I asked, following him as he bolted up the stairs at a sharp clip, two steps to the stride.

He turned around and fixed me with an alarmed expression which worried me more than the padlocked door. >>Beuys is gone<< he said, in a grave tone

>>What do you mean, gone?<< I gasped.

>>He's been sacked. The University instituted disciplinary proceedings against him. There was a coup in the administration, and they forced him out.<<

>>They can't just force him out... he's got tenure and everything<< I gasped, realising the seriousness of the situation. Beuys had personally vouched for me in his letter to the Standesamt - his tutelage was the main reason I was allowed to stay in the country.

>>He has violated the rules of the Kunstakademie<< Emil explained, as we reached the top floor, with the offices, and found a large gathering of students and tutors all cramped into the lounge. I recognised Eberhard, and a couple of other painters and 'performance artists' but there were students from all across the University.

>>It's the open admission policy<< explained a tall, bearded man as we walked in. >>The admissions department turned a blind eye when it was just his lectures that he opened up to the public. After all, that was just good publicity with the local community. But this year, he has actually opened up his degree programme to anyone that wants to join.<<

>>What do you mean, anyone?<< asked another girl, sitting on the arm of a sofa nearby. >>The Kunstakademie has always had a most stringent admissions policy. They accept only the best.<<

>>Well<< piped up Eberhard, ever ready to toot his own horn. >>It depends on the professor. Professor Geiger - my own professor - he will accept only 7 students a year, so you may be assured, we are truly the creme de la creme. Richter, the Bechers and the others will take about 20, so the quality is not quite the same.<<

>>How many does Beuys have?<< I asked nervously.

The tall, bearded painter held up a sheaf of papers that had been taped together to form what looked like a medieval roll. >>This semester, he has enrolled nearly 200 students.<<

>>Two _hundred_? << said the woman on the sofa, almost choking. >>What is he thinking? Who can these people be? They can't all be artists.<<

>>I am one of his students<< I pointed out, and I was suddenly aware of many eyes upon me. Some of them knew me from textile class, but there were obviously quite a few more who had only seen my photo, wearing dresses in the Rheinische Post, and took me for some airheaded model type.

>>As am I<< said Emil, standing up and moving to my side in solidarity. Emil was well-liked, and popular with both students and staff, so people moved grudgingly aside. >>And I do not intend to let him go without a fight.<<

>>I am with you<< agreed the tall, bearded student, moving over to stand by him. >>It was Beuys who fought for me to be able to study, when every other art school in Germany had turned me down - not for the quality of my art, but because of my anarchist political views. So I am willing to stand with Beuys.<<

>>I don't know<< murmured Michael beside me. >>200 students is a lot. And I am struggling to keep up with both school and the band. Perhaps if we can get the number of students down, the University may be willing to negotiate. If I resign, he had only 199 students.<<

>>Michael<< I said softly, but he shrugged. Though his body language was passive, I could see in his eyes that he was determined.

>>Have any of you got a bolt-cutter?<< asked the tall, bearded student, who was rapidly emerging as the leader. >>Go on, Anatol, you're a metal worker. Fetch something that will cut through a padlock.<<

A roar of support went up from the assembled students as Anatol loped down the hall, and returned a few minutes later, carrying a large and nasty looking iron implement. Together he and the bearded student wrestled with the bolt-cutter until they had forced the door open. 

>>Right. We're moving in<< declared Anatol, waving the tool to attract attention. >>Come on, Joachim. We shall occupy Beuys' office, and in fact, the whole top floor, until Beuys is reinstated, and all of the students are admitted. Who is with me?<<

>>Yes! I am<< agreed Emil, and as he shouted, more and more students got up and started filing into the office.

>>This is an occupation!<< shouted Joachim, the bearded student, locating a can of paint in Beuys' office, and daubing "FREE BEUYS" across the office door. He turned to me and grinned. >>What about you, model-girl? Are you in?<<

I hesitated on the doorstep. I did not like the vandalism, but I, too, was very angry at the dismissal. Beuys had been very kind to me, personally, and had helped out the nascent careers of not just Power Station, but all of the bands - NEW!, Cluster, Can - who were making waves in the German music scene that year. >>I can't stay<< I sighed, but as the crowd started to murmur, I hushed them. >>I have a partner back at home who I have to take care of. But what I can do is talk to the press. I know people - at the Rheinische Post, and even Der Spiegel - and I can let them know what is happening.<<

A cheer went up, but someone at the back shouted >>What about food? What are we going to eat and drink in here?<<

>>You'll need money for that<< I mused, but then brightened. >>My partner is in a band, they are very popular. Some of you might have heard of them - they are called Power Station?<< Another small cheer went up. >>I will ask them to play a benefit performance to raise money. I'm sure Beuys will let them use the Creamcheese Club for this.<<

>>Yes, we, too, will play for this.<< Beside me, Michael smiled, glad to be of use at last. >>We will ask all the other bands - I know that everyone will support this. And if they don't...<<

>>Fuck em!<< shouted Emil, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

It was a heady, exciting time, and I was both thrilled and terrified to be caught up in the whirlwind that descended upon the Kunstakademie that autumn. We caught the administration off-guard both with the Occupation, and with the amount of press attention that Weber und Schneider and Power Station managed to garner. The local papers, really, just enjoyed any excuse to print photos of Silke and Myrthe and I, as pretty girls always sold newspapers. But the three of us dressed up as revolutionaries, holding up signs saying "REINSTATE BEUYS" and "SEX STRIKE: IF YOU WANT US TO OPEN OUR LEGS, OPEN THE ART SCHOOLS" (that one was Silke's, as if you couldn't tell) and "EVERYONE IS AN ARTIST; ART IS FOR ALL", well, that was really something. We took to the papers, extolling the virtues of our glamourous - and now notorious - professor, and the University was caught on the back foot and highly embarrassed.

The occupation dragged on for a few weeks, and became as much of a party as a political event, with musicians playing and poets performing, and the sorts of performance-art-based 'happenings' that Beuys was proud to have inspired. Posters and flyers went up everywhere, using the same mixture of humour and persuasion that Beuys himself had championed. But in the end, the Kunstakademie did not play fair. I think it was maybe the fact that Beuys had started to come by and stay at the Occupation, continuing to teach out of his occupied office, as if he were still a full professor. This infuriated the administration, who finally lost patience, and asked the police to come and remove the occupation, by force if necessary.

The whole thing was oddly terrifying, as one minute, there were just a group of hippies sitting around, talking about art and politics, and then slowly all these uniformed police officers filed silently in, just taking up position like an army assembling into formation. For about fifteen minutes, it looked like it might get quite hairy, as no one knew how to react, and a couple of the more serious anarchists looked like they wanted a fight. Thank goodness Beuys was there, that day! Because if he had not been there, preaching non-violence and peaceful methods, the confrontation might have escalated. But Beuys rose slowly to his feet, gesturing with his hands for the students to remain calm, then looked at the police, and burst out laughing.

>>We have already won<< he announced confidently, and then strode from his office, down the corridor completely lined with coppers, laughing as if the entire event was hilarious, and grinning like a loon. >>Democracy is funny, yes?<<

I did not, at first, understand why he found it so amusing. But slowly, as I realised that the Kunstakademie had been embarrassed, and forced onto the back foot, calling in an army of police to pursue this jovial, co-operative, non-violent man. Beuys' easy manner and friendly laughter had charmed the cops who had been brought in to arrest him, and they saw no point in pressing charges. The University administration were forced to capitulate Of the 200 new students that Beuys had wanted to admit, 142 were conditionally admitted on the grounds that they attempted to gain some kind of qualifications. By the end of the year, only 16 had survived long enough to register for the next year, but Beuys said he was prouder of those 16 students, than any others he had ever taught.

Beuys, however, was never readmitted as a professor. But Beuys being Beuys, he had simply never accepted the dismissal in the first place, and continued holding his Ring-Discussions and lectures in coffeehouses, clubs and lecture halls across Düsseldorf. He opened an office near the Creamcheese club, where he carried on meeting with his former students, and his house, on the other side of the river, was always open to those of us he had grown to know well. In fact, his pedagogy spread not just across Düsseldorf, not just all across West Germany, but all across Europe, as once he was no longer tied to the Kunstakademie, he was offered honorary professorships at art schools from Scandinavia to Scotland.

Joachim and Anatol were both expelled, for destroying university property, but it didn't do either of their careers any harm. Our little knot of friends, however, was disrupted forever. Michael dropped out, and never returned. And it was to my last semester with Emil as my advisor. Although the administration had no proof of his ringleading in the Occupation, they put pressure on him to finish his degree and get out. By the Spring, he had graduated, and gone on to be hired as an art teacher at the very same Rethel Gymnasium that had educated both Michael and Florian!

But Emil had given me one last parting piece of tutorial advice. At the start of the semester, he had advised me that I should take some more elective classes, to expand my horizons beyond textiles and couture. So I chose a History of Cinema class that, to be honest, Flori had liked the look of better than I had. Flori loved films and would happily spend all day watching them, though the plots often passed me by. Once I had established that it was held in a large theatre of a lecture hall, and that the professor used a sign-in sheet rather than taking attendance, I invited Flori to start going along with me. We both enjoyed this immensely, and it became a sort of a date, as well as a learning experience, to catch a silent film together in the afternoon, before he disappeared off to the studio on Mintropstrasse to meet Ralf.

It worked well for both of us, and my grades improved that semester, with Flori to explain what was going on in the movies and tutor me through the coursework in Film. Because oh, how Flori loved silent films! He was obsessed with the slightly theatrical acting styles, the way that the actors turned their faces into blank canvases and exaggerated the movements of their eyes and hands. Oh, and he loved the clothes, the hair, the make-up, especially Conrad Veidt, and when I told him that they had quite a similar look, the same intense blue eyes, the same jutting cheekbones and angular jaws, Flori started trying to dress in a similar way. Flori, all dressed up in 1920s and 30s style suits? Oh, I loved that! We had a whole month of Fritz Lang films, and Flori was in absolute heaven. The professor spent a whole week just on Metropolis, showing certain scenes over and over so that the students could see how they were filmed. That left such an impression on Flori, he could not stop talking about it for years afterwards.

That whole semester, sentiment over Beuys was still high, and sympathetic professors and their lax class admissions policies meant that Flori could slip in and out of the lectures unnoticed. But when he started raising his hand and participating in the class discussions - often showing up the actual students with his in-depth knowledge - the professor approached us after class.

>>I'm sorry to be a stickler for detail, but I don't think I have you on the attendance sheet, Herr... what did you say your name was?<< he asked, slightly apologetically, as Flori had made some very useful observations during the question and answer session.

>>Oh no, I'm the one on the register<< I leapt in quickly, pointing to my name on the sign-in sheet. >>I'm Jan Schneider-DeLay. This is my other half, Florian, he's a musician, really, but he just comes along because I talk to him so much about the films at home he wanted to see what I was on about.<< It was not entirely a white lie; our discussions did go on for days.

>>A musician?<< The professor's face became suddenly very alert. >>You don't play the piano, by any chance, do you, young man?<<

Flori made an apologetic face. >>I did take piano classes at the Schumann, but my piano playing is still rudimentary at best. I'm a flautist, I'm afraid.<<

The professor looked mightily impressed at the mention of the Schumann, as everyone in Düsseldorf typically did. >>That's a shame. As you see, these films would have originally been accompanied by piano - or, in the larger picture-houses, by organ. I have been researching copies of the scores, as some did survive the war, and still turn up, in libraries, or in cinemas as they are converted into nightclubs. I would love to be able to watch the films, as intended, with live accompaniment.<<

Flori's eyes lit up. >>Now it is very interesting that you say that. Because, do you know, my very best friend is an accomplished organ player. Do you mind if I bring him?<<

The professor's eyes grew wide. >>You and your organist friend are both very, very welcome. Come and see me before class, and I will arrange for the full score and an appropriate instrument to be available to you.<<

So Ralf tagged along to the next class. Ralf was, to be fair, an exceptionally good sight reader, and settled down with the score. The piano, he complained, was out of tune, and it was difficult to both follow the score, and keep half an eye on the film on the screen above. But the effect was marvellous, and Ralf clearly enjoyed the challenge. Soundtracking films was one of his real aspirations; he made friends with some of the film students and did some work with them (uncredited, of course, so that Phillips could not accuse him of going against Power Station's record contract!)

The next week, the professor told us he would arrange for a few classes to be held in a proper cinema, with an organ, to get the full experience. And it was through this arrangement, in autumn of 1972, that Ralf finally met his match. For once, it was not actually one of the giggling little 18 year old girls he came across through his band, but someone who was very much his intellectual and professional equal. We had gone early to the cinema that my film professor had hired to show Frau Im Mond, to check out the organ situation. The professor had told us it was a beautiful, old-fashioned art deco theatre, which still had a full organ, miraculously unscathed in the wars. Clearly, the cinema had seen better times, but new management had taken over, and as well as showing the latest American films, they had been filling up the weekday and afternoon shows with odd art films, French New Wave and New German Cinema, shown very cheaply to attract the art students.

When we arrived, we found the hall locked, so we were told to go upstairs and ask for the manager. This young woman, who ran the theatre, and booked the new art films that were so popular with the students, was a small, slender, stylishly dressed and very beautiful 25-year-old with a degree in Film. She had long, wavy dark-blonde hair, a square jaw, cornflower blue eyes, and pert lips that pursed disapprovingly at these three hippies who had come to ask for the keys to her domain.

As Flori and I watched, astonished, she raked a completely smitten and awestruck Ralf over the coals about the films of Fritz Lang, and quizzed him as to whether he were truly qualified to operate an organ as rare and elaborate as the CInema boasted. By the time she frog-marched our Ralfi down to the organ booth to establish whether he had the necessary sensitivity to operate her establishment's instrument, he was giggling and touching his face and twisting his hair and trying to echo her body language. It was indeed an enormous and probably very expensive organ, with pipes the size of skyscrapers, and an elaborate system of mirrors so that the organist could see both the score, and a reflection of the film over the top of the keys. But Ralf, shivering with fear and quaking with lust, and quite possibly ready to propose on the spot, played with a passion and urgency he had not played with in years.

Isabella, for that was her name, was faintly unimpressed with Ralf, but snorted her approval of his rendition of the score, and turned on her heel, leaving us to it. Ralf was quite positively struck speechless, turning to Flori and I with his mouth open, but Flori and I just looked at one another and started to laugh. We knew that expression. Our Ralfi was in love.

He pursued Isabella for months, but she remained completely uninterested in him. She had no interest in popular music, preferring Varese and Satie, so Power Station held no appeal for her. The leather trousers and the Jim Morrison outfit, she found faintly distasteful, as she preferred men in sharp Italian silk suits. He could not impress her with his intellect, as she was just as clever as him, and spoke four languages, having studied abroad in Marseilles, Florence and even a semester in St Petersburg, so cracking out his creaky high school Russian did not impress her. And as for money, she was completely oblivious to him, because she did not care if his father was rich. She was a professional woman with a highly responsible and cultured job, with a salary to match; while Ralf, she considered merely a penniless and indigent musician.

Ralf pined. It was almost comical to see. The man who was used to snapping his fingers and picking up little Marias and Ingrids and Ilsas at gigs, he was running circles around Düsseldorf's small film scene trying to make an impression on her. She was very interested in the New German Cinema of Ranier Werner Fassbinder and Wim Wenders, so Ralf did his best to absorb her knowledge and soon declared himself the biggest Fassbinder fan in Düsseldorf. It seemed that the control freak who had spent so much effort trying to dominate and alter his girlfriends to turn them into miniature versions of himself, found himself actually trying to change his own personality and interests to be more appealing to the stunning and incomparable Isabella.

But after all that, it turned out to be his connection to _me_ that wooed her in the end. I heard the story from both sides, and managed to piece together something approaching the truth. One morning, "accidentally on purpose" he ran into her at the cafe where she had her coffee before work, and was surprised to see her wearing a smart _Weber und Schneider_ suit that he had recognised from the original student show Silke and I had done in 1970.

>>That's a Weber und Schneider<< Ralf had blurted out. >>And an original, too.<<

For the very first time, Isabella had looked slightly impressed at anything that had come out of Ralf's mouth. >>You're right. It is. Well spotted.<< She looked him up and down, perplexed, as Ralf in those days was still dressed in a way that really was quite far from anything that could be considered fashionable. Flori's dress sense had improved immeasurably since starting to hang out with the Weber und Schneider gang, but Ralf, still, was quite hopeless in those stinky leather trousers and the scuffed white chelsea boots he never bothered cleaning.

>>No, no<< Ralf had stuttered, still too intimidated by her cool beauty to put his thoughts into any kind of ordered form. >>You don't understand - I know those girls. We are very good friends.<<

Isabella told me that she had actually laughed aloud. >>Those 'girls' are the designers of the most exclusive dress collections in Germany. So if you supposedly 'know' them, why don't you just ring up and put my name on the waiting list for an exclusive Christmas Gown at the Kö Boutique, huh?<< She confessed later that she hadn't actually had the slightest intention of actually doing it; she just thought Ralf was very obviously lying to get her attention and wanted to challenge him on it.

Ralf had grinned and pushed his greasy hair out of his face. >>I can do better than that. You see, the Schneider of Weber und Schneider is married to the Schneider that I am in a band with. If you like, I can introduce you, and take you on a guided tour of their Atelier - but only on the condition that you agree to allow me to take you on a dinner date.<<

Isabella was so surprised that she had agreed on the spot, as much out of curiosity to find out whether Ralf was lying, as desire to obtain a new dress. And so that afternoon, there was a buzz on our intercom, and Ralf's voice rather nervously asking >>It's Ralf. Ralf Hütter, that is. I'm here to see Chan?<<

>>Ralfi!<< I buzzed him up, delighted to see him, and without thinking, threw my arms around his neck and kissed his cheeks, as we had grown very affectionate over the previous year (and, indeed, perhaps Myrthe and I had already been hitting the office bubbly in Silke's absence). And then I saw Isabella, looking very regal and glamourous, even in those stylish silver and pale grey offices that Wolfgang had put together for us, and dropped my arms from around 'Ralfi's' neck quickly.

>>You do actually know him?<< stuttered Isabella, though she recovered from her surprise very quickly. Clearly, she had forgotten meeting Flori and I, that first afternoon at the cinema, though, to be fair, we had been dressed like students, while now I was wearing one of the new designs that Myrthe had been pinning on me. Every year now, we still did a small select group of exclusive, hand-made gowns for Christmas, as these could change hands for thousands of DMs. Three collections a year was a lot for a small studio, but the fantasy Christmas-gowns were where our reputation - and our bank balance - was made.

>>Ralf? He was one of the first people I ever met in Düsseldorf! I've known him for over two years. He is practically my big brother now.<< And suddenly, I remembered my manners. >>Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like some Sekt? We've just opened a bottle. I'm the Schneider, of Schneider und Weber, and this is Van Alst, whose name didn't fit in the pun. Weber, I'm afraid is up in Hamburg, negotiating an exclusive deal at a boutique there through my sister-in-law, but... Oh my goodness, is that one of our suits? Myrthe, look! I haven't seen one of those designs in ages. My goodness, the fabric has worn well. You'd never know I was only a third-year weaving student.<<

Myrthe was checking the spangled silver thread at the back. >>I remember these. Oh dear, one of the rivets looks like it might be coming loose. Do you want us to replace that for you?<<

Turning around, Isabella looked Ralf in the face. >>Alright, I will have dinner with you. Wait here.<< And Ralf, much to my surprise, sat down in the reception area of our office, and busied himself with a fashion magazine. (Ralf, you know, loved fashion magazines, they were one of his real weaknesses, though he was far too embarrassed to actually go to a newsagent and just buy one, he would invariably try to pilfer them from girlfriends.)

Isabella, it turned out, when she was not resisting the attentions of annoyingly persistent experimental musicians, was actually lovely. She was gracious and kind, though she never quite lost the slightly regal attitude of a woman used to running a small independent business. I suppose she and Myrthe had a lot in common in that regard, and they hit it off immediately. After half a glass of wine, Myrthe had suggested that since I was being so annoying about the fitting for the dress, maybe Isabella could stand in, and yes, she was perfectly happy to exchange the half hour's modelling work for a wholesale price on her very own dress, so long as we could take photos of her to use for the advertisements.

This, it turned out, was almost excessively flattering to Isabella, who flushed slightly, dropping her long eyelashes modestly. >>Don't be ridiculous. I'm not a model.<<

>>We don't use professional models<< I insisted.

>>We can't afford them<< laughed Myrthe, through a mouthful of pins.

>>No, this is not true.<< After the complimentary coverage in the Parisian fashion magazines, our orders had expanded to the point where we could very well, have afforded them, and I knew that Silke had been perusing headshot catalogues - and professional photographers - much to Helmut's annoyance. >>We don't use professional models because this is not the fantasy that we are selling. We create clothes to suit ordinary German professional women with ordinary figures.<<

>>There's nothing ordinary about your clothes<< laughed Isabella, holding up her arm so that Myrthe could sew in a sort of suspended butterfly wing of silver wire and gauze. >>But that's what I like about them.<<

>>But this is the fantasy we are selling. Not shallow models, but interesting women, cultured women with professional jobs and an income - and most importantly _taste_ \- of their own, who want unique things. Your life, Isabella, flitting seamlessly between your office, and the theatre, with its red carpet and its silver screen - this is the fantasy that the women who buy our clothes want. <<

>>If you say so!<< Isabella laughed aloud, though she had quite obviously fallen in love with the gossamer-wing gown.

After a brief fitting, we sent Isabella and Ralf off to have dinner, with the directions to come back the next evening to pick up her personally tailored dress. If she liked it, we would make an appointment for me to bring my camera, and we would take some posed photos in the studio, and some candids in her office.

She came back without Ralf the next evening, but after a brief chat with Myrthe about office management techniques to clear the absurd amount of correspondence piling up on the reception desk, it became quite clear that she was after a private chat with me. I suggested we go out for a swift drink round the corner in the Mata Hari, though, to be honest, I was a little afraid of what she was going to ask me, torn between telling the truth and sticking up for a man I now considered one of my closest friends.

Isabella took to the bistro like a queen to her kingdom. She charmed the waiter, who gave us a very good table, and brought us sparkling wine in fluted glasses he said ' complement the slimness of your figures'. We rolled our eyes and laughed, and made a few minutes of small pleasant talk before she put her glass down and looked at me carefully.

>>So you know I went on a date with your friend Ralf yesterday.<<

I smiled and tried to shrug nonchalantly. >>How did it go?<<

>>He was very charming, which was slightly unexpected. He is intelligent, and thoughtful, but perhaps sometimes... well, a little arrogant.<<

I laughed, a little too loud to be natural. >>Yes, this sounds like our Ralf.<<

>>He speaks of you a great deal. Tell me, Jan, is he in love with you?<< Her directness threw me a little, but to be honest in a way I was glad of it. It was nice to be able to brush the preliminaries out of the way, and get to the meat of the matter.

Trying to be polite, I gave the matter careful consideration before replying, honestly. >>No. Not any more. Not in a long time. I think... well, I know I broke his heart. Badly. About two years ago now. But we have grown to become good friends now.<<

>>You were his lover?<< Christ, she didn't mince words. But there was no malice to her question. I decided I liked her. A lot.

>>Very briefly. Maybe six weeks? It was a mess. I was already very much in love with his best friend, Flori, but too shy to say so. We behaved badly, me... him... well, all three of us in different ways. But it worked out for the best. Flori and I have been together for nearly two years now. We are... well, we are effectively married, emotionally, physically, spiritually... I suppose legally probably a little bit, too, because of the pre-nuptuals. But it's not as complicated as all that. Flori is just the other half of me.<<

>>Flori is... Florian? His partner in the band? This Schneider of his?<<

>>Yes.<< I smiled wryly, wondering how to warn her. 

>>So tell me. Honestly. If your best friend wanted to become romantically involved with Ralf, what would you tell her?<<

I had to suppress a little laugh. >>Well, my best friend is Flori, so...<<

She smiled, though clearly she thought I was making a joke. >>Your best friend who is a _girl_. <<

I leaned forward, catching her eye, and tried to impress upon her the importance of what I was saying. >>Ralf _is_ in love with Florian. This is not negotiable, and this will always be the case. Anyone who wants to love Ralf just has to learn to live with the fact that he will always love Florian the most. <<

>>I see.<< She picked up her drink and sipped at it. >>Is this why Ralf behaves so much like a playboy, out with a different girl every week?<<

I winced. >>No. I suspect that might be my fault. Like I said, I hurt him, very badly. I didn't just leave him; I took his best friend away from him. So I think it's his way of insulating himself from being hurt again, to never allow himself to get attached. But Ralf... it's difficult to describe Ralf. Because Ralf _can_ be a wonderful, loving, genuine man. The way that he is with Flori, but also... with his friends, with Emil as well, and with me, now that we understand one another. He is intelligent, and he is very dedicated, and he cares very deeply about ideas, and about people, if he lets himself. <<

>>Does he often let himself?<<

>>No. He is a very closed, private person. And he cares very much about appearances, especially with women. He is such a funny puzzle, because he comes across as so arrogant, and so sure of himself, but there is this deep insecurity, with Ralf, that masks an even deeper arrogance. He really does believe that he is special, but it's like he can't make up his mind whether that means special - very good - or special very bad and he should be ashamed and try to correct himself and everyone around him. And for a certain kind of woman, this is poison, even while it is intoxicating. It would take a woman who was very sure of herself, to love Ralf, and to be loved by Ralf, without being... I'm sorry. I don't know the German word. _Subsumed_. <<

"Verschlingen" said Isabella, with a faint smile. >>You don't seem to mind being _subsumed_ by Florian. You don't seem to mind being one-half of... How is it that Myrthe and Ralf and everyone calls you... FloriJan? <<

I stared at her, quite taken aback. Like all groups of extremely close friends, we all had little nicknames that we used for one another, to our faces, like 'V-2' and 'Little Mouse', or behind our backs, like 'the Dwarf' or 'the Fuhrer'. But this, this was new. His name and mine, run together like we were one person. Flori-zhan. >>I suppose this is a fair description.<< I conceded.

>>So the question is, am I prepared to be one half of Ralfabella, or compete with Ralflorian.<<

>>Have you slept with him?<< I asked, returning bluntness with bluntness.

>>God no.<< Isabella blurted out, looking more than slightly put out. >>I come from a very traditional family. Believe it or not, despite being a modern woman, I do have very traditional values. I do not throw myself at men before I am quite sure of what my feelings are.<<

>>Do you know what your feelings are?<<

>>No.<< She furrowed her brow and looked slightly cross. >>He is the most irritating, persistent, and flummoxing of creatures. And yet, he is... intriguing. There is something about him that is, as you say, like a puzzle. That I feel I must get to the bottom of.<<

>>Oh, Isabella, don't<< I laughed. >>There is no bottom to this puzzle that is our Ralfi. There is never an end.<<

At that she smiled. She had an absolutely dazzling smile that made even me go a little weak at the knees. >>Then perhaps I will not get _bored_ with him. This is, you see, my problem with men. I cannot stand to be bored. <<

I thought of Flori, and felt my face growing warm. >>He has a good heart<< I finally said, as I finished my glass of bubbly. >>I know it is a strange thing to say about a man who treated me so badly, and who races through women like the world will end next week. But I do honestly believe that he has grown up, a lot, in the past two years. He acts like a little boy, but he could be a very good man, if his heart won out and he put his mind to it.<<

>>Hmmm<< said Isabella, and finished her own glass of wine. >>I will consider what you have said, and I do thank you for being honest with me. I understand that he is your friend, and you and your husband care for him a lot, so I appreciate that the questions I have asked may have been hard for you.<<

>>Have you made up your mind about him?<<

>>No<< she shrugged. >>But I have at least decided that I will ring him tomorrow and tell him that I will go on a second date with him. Now I must go, my little doggie must be mad with worry that I have been out so late two nights in a row.<<


	47. Semiquaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As 1972 turns into 1973, Florian gets a haircut and a brand new (old-fashioned) look.
> 
> NEW! go back into the studio with Conny, but the tensions are starting to show between Michael and Klaus.
> 
> And Jan starts an internship at a telecommunications company that will eventually change the shape of her career.

Ralf and Isabella were an established couple by All Saints. That November there was a big election in West German politics, and although I was not able to vote, Ralf and Isabella and Florian had long, complicated discussions about who to vote for. The students, for the most part, did not like the incumbent Chancellor, who they found very conservative, and they burned an effigy of him at the campus bonfire. Isabella, though she did not like this politician either, thought that was disrespectful, and she and Ralf had a long, drawn-out argument about it. But I realised, as he gave in, and conceded to her way of thinking, that he respected her as well as loved her, and was perhaps a little bit in awe of her. I suppose it was odd, to realise from an _argument_ , that two people had become a serious couple, but then again, that was just how Ralf was. You always learned more about who Ralf was and what he thought from the arguments than from the agreements.

And to my astonishment, Ralf's slight awe of her persisted, even after he knew he had won her. She was, perhaps, the first of his girlfriends that he treated decently, perhaps even well - though, to be fair, she would have let him know had he not. Isabella, with her traditional background, and her polished manners, and her regal manner, actually kept Ralf in line. And what's more, Ralf appeared to enjoy being kept in line. To all appearances, he became a devoted and attentive boyfriend, though to be honest, I kept waiting for the real Ralf Hütter to leap out of the bushes and say >>Fooled you!<< And yet, he did not. She went up to Krefeld to meet his parents. When Ralf's little sister got married, he took along Isabella along as his acknowledged girlfriend. And his parents, reportedly, approved. And he pulled his hair back in a neat ponytail and stuffed himself into his dark blue suit and went down to Stuttgard to meet her parents. Her parents, to be fair, were not quite so impressed, but Isabella managed to smooth it over.

And the always slightly unbalanced threesome of Ralf and FloriJan became a stable and reliable foursome. Together, we cut a formidable dash through the Düsseldorf nightlife. It was funny to admit it, and I did not mean to toot my own horn, but I saw the other girls that hung around other bands after gigs, and was often struck by how uneducated and foolish they were. No other musicians seemed to be confident enough to have girlfriends as _successful_ as we were. Isabella, with her refined manners, her cultured conversation and her glamourous clothes, became an indispensable pillar of the little Power Station family. She expanded Ralf's mind and his cultural horizons, introducing him to the world of cinema as an art form perhaps even more powerful than music.

Flori as well as Ralf was in ecstasies over the idea of expanding into this new direction. They both expressed a wish that they and their 'Art-Director', Emil, might indeed come up with little films to accompany Power Station songs, so that the whole performance could he a seamless whole, pictures and music and motion all together. Inspired both by the psychedelic projections at the Creamcheese club, and the silent film soundtracking, Ralf's head was positively exploding with ideas that he wanted to pursue with Power Station, which he would pester Emil to bring to fruition. But alas, at that point, there was not the money, and more to the point, there was not yet the _technology_ available to realise all of his dreams. Emil set up some very simple projections that he could play over the music, but actually getting them in synch with the music, especially the sequencers, that was their dream. Dragging along a slide projector was hard enough, but the image quality that Ralf dreamed of was just unaffordable. But still, they played tricks with the lighting, keeping the stage very dim and eschewing spotlights in favour of dramatic accents.

That winter of 1972-1973 was, in many ways, although Power Station was not that active in recording, a period of incubation during which Ralf and Flori came up with all of these dreams that they would eventually be able to realise, when the technology caught up with their racing minds. After their somewhat thin-skinned reception of the mild criticism of the experimental structure of their last album, Ralf was determined to learn how to write proper _songs_ , and he and Flori spent ages honing the results of their jam-sessions into shorter, more cohesive tunes. Power Station was changing, and almost certainly for the better.

And in more ways than just their music! Flori, with our encouragement, was the first of Power Station to step up his sartorial game. After a whole season of the elegant, old-fashioned 1930s films, first in class, and then at Isabella's cinema's late-night shows, Flori had decided that he had had enough of dressing like a hippie. Flori wanted to dress like a 1930s film star.

I took him to the little barber-shop near the station where I still got my hair cut (every now and then, one of the fashion supplements wanted to know where Silke and I got our sleek bobs done, expecting us to name Vidal Sassoon or some big-shot French hairdresser, but we never gave away our secret.) Ralf invited himself along, he said for moral support, but there was such a look of horror on his face that I nearly shooed him out again. Flori, his unruly hair well past the collar of his shirt, sat himself down in Edie's chair, and started showing her photos of Conrad Veidt.

Edie looked at the photos, and lifted Flori's mop with a practised hand. >>Yes, I think this will suit your facial structure perfectly.<<

>>But not so much in the face<< Flori warned. >>I find it distracting, so I will have to slick it back.<<

>>You want to be careful<< warned Edie, tugging his hair this way and that, parting it and prodding it at the front of his hairline, where it was starting, ever so slightly, to thin. >>You must brush it to the side, not to the back, or this balding patch will get worse.<<

>>I don't care<< said Flori with a little shrug. For someone who loved clothes as much as he did, he was not actually that vain.

>>Your partner might care.<< And with this Edie flicked a look, not at me, but at Ralf! Both of us burst out laughing. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that someone would make that mistake.

>>Take it off, take it all off<< directed Flori, folding his hands away before he could change his mind, and Edie pulled out her scissors and started to snip. The long, dark coils of hair fell away, as Flori's face and neck emerged from beneath. She cut his hair beautifully, long on the top, slicked back just to the curve at the back of his head, and then got out a little razor and cleaned it up underneath, bringing the line round to his ears.

>>Sideburns?<< asked Edie, her razor hovering over them.

>>Take them off<< replied Flori, and the hair fell away. I gazed at the handsome stranger in the mirror. My Florian, and yet not. He turned to me, smiling cautiously. >>What do you think?<<

I stared at the implausibly handsome film star looking back at me, his impossible cheekbones, the lines of his huge, sticky-outy ears somehow tamed by the way the neat lines of his short new hair skirted them. The old-fashioned haircut suited him, his old-fashioned face, so much better than the long, wild hippie-hair ever had.

I smiled, feeling my breath catch in my throat. >>You can't go about in your old hippie-clothes, with that haircut.<<

>>I know.<< Flori smiled back at me. >>I will have to get a suit.<<

Silke and I asked around, about who did the best men's tailoring in Düsseldorf, but in the end, Johannes supplied the name of his tailor. We went to a small walk-up where Florian was measured, and selected the fabric for two suits, a heavy, dark charcoal wool for winter, and a lighter, silvery blue-grey silk for summer, which highlighted his eyes beautifully. Flori, funnily enough, took to hand-tailoring like a duck to water, deciding that he liked being fussed over, and consulted on the detailing of his clothes. The tailors, I think, heard his surname, detected the faint whiff of old money, and became even more obsequious and flattering than usual, turning up the charm as high as it would go. The arrangement suited all parties happily.

When he put it all together - the haircut, the suit, a beautifully fitted formal shirt with a complementary tie - I stared at my lover, gobsmacked. I had always thought that Florian was beautiful, in orange satin trousers, in leopard-print shirts, or in pink-striped flannel pyjamas. But in his 1930s suit, with his crisply cut hair and his smart tailoring, Flori honestly looked like a film star. I could not believe the difference that it made - and even people in shops and on the street started treating him differently, treating him with a respect and a deference they'd never shown the scruffy music student.

The first time we met Isabella and Ralf for dinner, Isabella stared at his crisp new haircut, as if noticing him properly for the first time. >>Florian<< she exclaimed, with an edge of surprise that amused me and annoyed Flori. >>You are actually a very handsome man.<<

I almost laughed aloud, putting my hand to the back of his neck to touch the short, bristly hairs there. >>He is, isn't he?<<

Isabella frowned slightly, and turned to look at her own boyfriend, with his greasy mane curling across his shoulders and down his back. >>Hmmm<< she said thoughtfully, picking up one of those long brown curls as if weighing it.

Ralf glared back her, annoyed and perhaps even a little frightened as he quickly seized his hair back from her, looking most put out as he tucked it down the collar of his leather jacket. I knew that Ralf was very attached to his hair, considering how long it had taken him to grow it, but I couldn't help but feel its days were numbered, now Isabella had seen how much better Flori looked with a decent haircut.

The final piece of Flori's new stage outfit came a few weeks before Christmas. As usual, I received a small jewellery box from South Africa. Knowing that it would be wildly inappropriate, I opened it before the big family gift exchange at the Schneider-Eslebens. But Flori gasped when he saw the hideous brooch. It wasn't even real; it was costume jewellery, with chips of diamond-dust to make a sort of diamante sparkle. But as the news had obviously filtered back to my Mother that I was living in semi-sin with a musician, she had sent me a brooch in the shape of a semi-quaver.

But Flori picked it out of the box with pure delight, holding it up to the light to see how it sparkled. >>It's perfect<< he intoned.

>>It's hideous<< I laughed. >>Come on.<<

>>If you don't want it, may I have it?<< His eyes glinted with such cupidity and delight that I told him it was his.

Florian debuted his new, old-fashioned look later that month, on a television program recorded for WDR. A television crew arrived at the band's studio to film them playing a short improvisational piece, then there was supposed to be a brief interview. Interview! Ralf was still so stagestruck by cameras that he could barely squeak out a few words, while Flori sat smirking in the background, too cool to speak. It was funny to see Ralf, who was normally almost arrogant around people he knew, reduced to inarticulate shyness as soon as someone pointed a camera in his face. But he never ever liked having even his photograph taken. It spooked him, he said, a little like those primitive tribes who believed that a camera stole a little part of your soul, he claimed that tapes, especially videotapes, somehow stored a tiny piece of your consciousness, trapped forever to repeat the same motion, over and over again on a screen.

>>We are not so good at talking<< he confessed, in that shy, contemplative voice of his, to explain their reticence. >>That's why we make music.<<

Flori, however, his bright eyes and alert expression were captivating, even though he didn't say a word. He looked very smart in his new suit, with his hair parted to the side, like Edie had shown him. Although I knew he had been nursing a glass of orange juice, as he was getting over a cold, he looked like a sophisticated technocrat sipping an exotic cocktail.

Michael and Klaus, however, hooted at the screen when the programme came on. >>I am sorry, but he looks like a bank manager<< Michael giggled. >>You will never catch me wearing a suit.<<

I disagreed, of course, but as I looked at the screen, I couldn't help but feel that Flori and Ralf no longer looked like they even belonged in the same band. Ralf was still wearing his leather trousers, and that crisp white cotton shirt like an American rock star, his long hair still looking like it belonged to the 60s. But Flori, to me, looked futuristic and sleek and modern, and I knew that Isabella agreed. I knew she despaired at Ralf's fashion sense, or lack thereof, but she was slowly working on him to do something about that dreadful hair.

Christmas of 1972 was a fairly subdued affair as we all gathered at the Schneider-Esleben home for the third year running. Two years, Flori and I had been living together! It seemed like a matter of only a few months sometimes, and yet I could no longer seem to remember a time before Flori, his life had merged together with mine so completely. Claudia, however, did not seem quite so secure in her relationship. Although Achim had dutifully turned up to Christmas with her this year, he seemed distant, preferring to talk to Paul at length about politics and economics. Paul was convinced that Something Bad was brewing in the stock market, and had moved much of his wealth to more stable investments, selling his paper assets and buying more real estate - including that little house of Claudia's in Hamburg. 

Achim was just more worried about the state of the world in general; he had grown very interested in Ecology, as had most young people in the early 70s, and he was worried about Germany's dependence on oil and fossil fuels and the resulting pollution, though he was keen on discussing technical solutions - wind and solar power - rather than just pontificating. So Achim started asking Paul about passive solar construction in houses, using geothermal energy and double-plated glass, things that Paul was very interested in from a design standpoint, to heat homes. Consequentially, Paul liked Achim, thought he was a bright and sensible young man, unlike many of Flori's and Claudia's hippie friends. So the two of them sat up late, talking about the increasing domination of the oil market by the Middle East and debating the collapse of something they called Bretton Woods, the previous year. This, I didn't understand at all, but it was apparently the cause of some currency fluctuation that was causing Paul much worry in his rich man's games with the stock market.

Although Claudia was pleased that Achim and her father got on so well, she seemed more than slightly put out that her lover was spending so much more time debating Paul than talking to her. They had been together for over a year now, and Claudia, I knew, was quite keen to make it official and get married, or at least become officially engaged. I had been legally 'engaged' for so long that I had forgotten it actually meant anything. Indeed, the only other person I knew that was 'engaged' was Silke, but it was understandable that she would want to delay a marriage she knew would never be consummated. But Claudia was irritated by Achim's reluctance, and kept dropping hints about how much nicer it would be, to get married in Hamburg and stay there after the wedding - hints that Achim of course studiously ignored.

Achim started expounding on the commune to Paul, explaining about the endless problems they had had refurbishing the late medieval architecture, but it seemed they had at last got it completely weatherproofed so that the great fires worked to warm the place. Paul listened with interest, as he had recently become interested in architectural salvage and refurbishment. Bored with the cottage in the South of France, his dream was now to buy and restore a medieval Bavarian castle. Achim kept expounding on the beauty of the countryside, the spaciousness of the old-fashoned rooms, and the joys and challenges of trying to grow all their own food, while Claudia looked on in barely disguised disgust. Why anyone would want to live in such a pigsty was absolutely beyond her.

I tried my best to distract Claudia, dragging her off for girly chats and shopping expeditions. We had both decided for a lark to buy one another big, colour-illustrated art picture books for Christmas, and we spent hours pouring over them. She had bought me a Time-Life illustrated book on the American space program, full of huge photos of rockets and astronauts and bleak landscapes taken of the moon. Flori and I stared for hours at the now-famous photo of the gorgeous blue marble of the earth, taken from outer space. I bought her a lavishly illustrated book on Art Deco, which she was going through a bit of a phase for since moving into a house that had been built in the 1920s. So her book was filled with photos of cinemas and exotic buildings in Florida, all lit up in neon. There was a chapter in it on a style called "Streamline Moderne" which Flori loved so much he wanted to steal it, all full of photos of express trains and steamships and Tamara de Lempicka paintings of beautiful girls in fast cars. We passed those two books back and forth between the three of us in front of the fire and had a glorious time while the television blared out those incomprehensible Schlager versions of Vom Himmel Hoch and Der Kleine Trommler.

In January, NEW! went back into the studio, again with Conny, though this time without the insinuations that they had stolen Power Station's producer. They had agreed to be friendly rivals, and besides, Conny was starting to make a name for himself in his own right, with the variety of bands that he had worked with. But NEW!, themselves, were starting to fray a little at the edges. Klaus was a difficult man to get along with, and though Michael was one of the most pacifist, easy-going men I ever met, even he had his limit with the unpredictable drummer.

See, Klaus had been teaching himself how to play guitar and keyboards, in order to write songs. And though he wasn't terrible, he was nowhere near as good as Michael, who had fast established himself as one of the best guitarists in West Germany. But if Klaus had his way, he would play _all_ of the instruments on the songs he had written, which Michael pointed out just wasn't fair, as he didn't insist on playing drums on the songs he had written.

But Klaus just would not see sense. Michael, I knew, was endlessly frustrated, not by Klaus's musicianship, but by his personality. When they didn't talk, but they just played together, he said, everything was perfect. They had a complete and almost supernatural unspoken musical understanding between them, just so long as they carried on playing. But when they put the instruments down, Klaus was unbearable, and they spent as much time fighting as they spent recording in that expensive studio up in Hamburg. Or, rather, Klaus would storm around the studio stamping his feet and blustering and shouting and venting his ego, while Michael sat quietly, withdrawing further and further into himself, though he would not provoke Klaus by saying anything stronger than <Hmmm, do you really think so, Klaus?<< at every increasingly bizarre suggestion. Recording the same song at three different speeds? Really! It was too much, some of Klaus' more bizarre art-pranks.

In the end, they argued so much that the money ran out before they had finished recording the record, and Michael returned to Düsseldorf very frustrated and quite annoyed with his bandmate. Not to mention, they still had to put together a live band to tour the half-finished record. A big festival of modern German music was being organised in Paris, in February, and though Power Station had agreed to headline one of the nights, and Tangerine Dream the other, NEW! very much wanted to play, but found that they did not have the musicians to duplicate the dense, dreamy sound of this new record. Michael, impressed by Flori and Ralf's mechanical drumming machine, wanted to record the extra parts on a reel to reel tape machine, to perform as a robotic third member of the group.

Klaus, however, wanted to put together a very rough-and-ready band to perform the tracks, and had finally convinced both his brother - the fabulous Thomas that Heidi thought so dreamy - and a studio engineer named Hans, to get together and perform energetic, Stooges-like garage-punk versions of the songs. But this was not to Michael's taste at all. Michael had fallen in love with the dense, dreamy soundscapes that Moebie and Achim had recorded with Conny, and was pestering Claudia for a proper introduction. There was one track from that Cluster album that he used to play over and over again - In The South, I think it was called - and to this day, if I hear that song, I close my eyes, and I am back in the big textile workshop of that silver and dove-grey studio in the Altstadt, hearing it echoing through the floorboards from Michael's bedroom below.

That silver and dove-grey studio was still happy in those days, though the atmosphere was slowly changing. Myrthe and Zaide, who was basically second-in-command in the office, wanted to make the organisations more and more professional, insisting that we fill out requisition forms and purchase orders for every little thing that we did. Both Silke and I chaffed against this, for differing reasons. Silke was just unhappy, a vague dissatisfaction that I thought at the time stemmed from her unconsummated relationship with Johannes - though I did happen to notice that the odious Wolfgang was hanging about more and more. Wolfgang, unlike Emil, was very clear about the fact that he did not want a serious relationship, and he was not just accepting, but insistent on being her 'bit on the side' while he played the field. But this, I felt, left Silke unsatisfied in a way that, for all their arguing and glaring at one another, Silke and Emil had actually shared some intellectual and emotional connection.

I had always both oddly envied and been completely suspicious of Silke for her ability to keep her emotional life and her professional life separated out into discrete little boxes, as if blow-jobs and fucks were just another column of goods and services rendered. It shocked me, yes, the way that for her, sex seemed to be both a kind of game, a competition of domination and exchange, but also a totally dispassionate thing that she executed without sentiment. Because Silke kept her real passion, her desire and her energy and her love, for her work, her designs, not for boys. She had told Parisian Vogue that ever since she was a little girl, she had dreamed, of being a designer with a beautiful, chic office in an exciting, trendy part of town; with a whole staff of creative, energetic people dedicated to working on turning her designs into reality. That silver and dove-grey office, with its energetic hum of sewing machines, its light-filled studios, and the friendly but confident receptionist dressed in up-to-the-minute fashion... she had had this image fixed in her mind since her early teens, as the vision of a successful and happy life.

For me, however, it was different. Don't get me wrong; I still loved clothes. I had become, and I forever after remained, a complete clothes-horse. Silke had taught me the language of couture, and it was a tongue I remained fluent in for the rest of my life. But my passion was computing. Designing clothes was a hobby, a pretty game. But my heart and my soul and my dedication went into my programming. I loved going round the Atelier for the companionship, and after the silent focus of the Computer Lab, the noisy hum of my friends and their chatter was a welcome relief. We had installed a stereo system in the design room, and the bright, clean room always echoed to the latest sounds, be that Power Station and NEW! or Ziggy Stardust and Roxy Music. Our receptionist, in particular, loved that Roxy Music record and played it over and over, swooning over the small blond synthesiser player. But although it was fun designing textiles and selecting fabrics for Silke's creations, my heart had gone out of the couture world, and my mind was elsewhere. I sat in the Atelier, but I dreamed of computers.

Now that Peter had graduated, I had become the most senior student in charge of the Computing Lab at the Engineering School. Professor Grundesbach encouraged me to do more and more research, and I was preparing to write my first academic paper in the field. So when a former student who had graduated to go and work for Telefunken, one of the larger telecommunications companies in Germany, stopped by asking for a grad student to help with some programming development they were doing, Grundesbach sent him straight to my office.

Flori drove me down to Telefunken's research department, a big, ugly, brutal concrete block in Southern Germany, for a meeting. The developer whisked us through the labs (Flori, with his characteristic charm, had talked his way into coming along) but my eyes were on stalks. The place was so ugly, compared to our lovely design office - like a big, battleship grey factory - but the work they were doing was so fascinating!

>>Here, have a play with this<< suggested Heinrich, the developer, sitting me down in his office and showing me a selection of strange implements scattered across his desk. There was a lumpy object with a strange roller ball in the top, another round one that you had to drag about the desk, and then at the end of the row was a small creature that looked like a little mouse, with a pointed head with a bulging eye on each side, and a long wire for a tail, wired into the back of the computer terminal.

>>Little Mouse, meet little mouse<< laughed Flori.

>>I love it, it reminds me of the little shuttle on a loom. But what does it do?<< I asked, tapping it, and feeling it scurry across the table. Up on the computer monitor, the cursor jumped from one block of test to another. >>Oh.<< I moved it again, and clicked one of the eye-buttons, and the text became highlighted. >>Oh my god. It... _wow_. <<

>>It's a fun toy, yes?<< laughed Heinrich. >>I've been working on the prototype for two years now, but my higher-ups don't really see the point of it. Now, if it had some applications, for use in business software, maybe, but...<< He shrugged lightly as I moved it about the screen.

>>Oh my god<< I repeated, my brain racing at speed. >>You see, I draw with light, on the computer screen. That is my program, that I've been working on for two years now.<<

>>Graphics?<< he asked, in a slightly disparaging tone. I nodded, realising that this developer was one of those guys who had been trained to care only about business and bottom lines and applications. >>Oh, you should read this American guy, Mandlebrot. He does some fun things with computer graphics and simulations of coastlines. Go ahead, take that one, if you want. I prefer the stationary model, it's easier to manipulate.<<

We moved on to discussing the programming of the business software that he was working on, and I hoped that I gave him some good suggestions. But after a few minutes, I realised what he really wanted me to do was some bug-chasing. Of course. I was only a student, so he didn't want me to do the glamourous conceptual stuff, he wanted my sharp eyes and keen sense of logic to dig through their code and find all the stupid little errors that no one else had the patience to chase down. But it was 'resume-quality experience', he kept telling me, and would look good on my CV. Telefunken was a very prestigious organisation, at least in Germany.

And to be honest, just being in the laboratory was fun. The little-mouse was burning a hole in my carpet bag, and that, indeed, was a better reward than anything. As Flori drove me home afterwards, I took it out and stared at it, turning it over and over in my hands, taking out the large ball-bearing on its underside and cleaning it before placing it back in.

>>You love that little mouse, don't you Little Mouse?<< teased Flori.

>>You don't understand<< I sighed, feeling my brain racing out so far ahead that it would be hard to explain it even to Flori, whose mind was as inventive as mine. >>The annoying thing about working on graphics is that you have to program in every mark that you want to appear on the screen, either with one of those generative algorithms, or just directly. Like, if you want a horizontal line in green halfway across the screen, you have to tell it, create a line, set colour as green, start the line at 50 pixels down and 5 pixels across, then end it at 50 pixels down and 100 pixels across. But with the little-mouse, you could just tap... at the start, at the finish, or even click and drag where you want the line to appear... think of it!<<

Flori's eyes lit up, and I could see that he was following my train of thought. >>And then you could literally paint, directly, on the screen.<<

>>Yes.<<

I asked Flori to drop me at the Engineering School, and then spent all night just trying to wire the little-mouse into the circuitry. It took another week to write a code to persuade the mainframe to recognise it and respond to its commands. And that was the easy part! Then I had to begin the laborious process of persuading my painting algorithm to interact with the little-mouse. It was difficult, and fiddly, and intensely labour-intensive, but the possibilities it could open up kept me dedicated to the mainframe for many all-night sessions.

I continued to meet up with Heinrich every few weeks for the rest of the year. He called it "interning"; I called it the faint whiff of exploiting work experience students. I'd sit down at their terminal and dig through their code, pulling out all the spaghetti so that it was more elegant and easier to work on, and then all of the bugs just fell out, like shaking a rug. Heinrich was always astonished at how quickly, and how thoroughly I worked, but really, it amazed me how they _couldn't_ see the problems. Soon, I was making small suggestions for logical changes that might make their tools run better. When those were accepted and implemented, I started making suggestions of larger, structural changes.

They didn't pay me, well, not in cash at least, but there were other benefits to interning there. Flori loved coming down with me, and poking his nose about the laboratory, talking to the scientists. When they realised who his father was, I think they got the idea that he was actually clever, and could even make himself useful. As I would sit programming, he would talk to people, charm his way into offices, and generally poke at things. It was heaven for a tinkerer like him. When they realised how good he was with machines, they started giving him things, often broken or obsolete things, but he would take them home, and he and Peter would take them apart and make them work again. We got a U-Matic video-tape-recorder, of broadcast quality, which would otherwise have cost thousands of DM, because Flori and Peter were able to improvise a replacement for a faulty spindle. 

But the most invaluable piece of equipment, from Flori's point of view, was a Telefunken 101F answerphone. Again, this was high-level business equipment that even Weber und Schneider could not afford, but it transformed Flori's life. Flori, you see, hated using the telephone. He hated making calls badly enough, but more than anything, he hated picking up a ringing telephone, because he hated not knowing who was on the other end, or what they wanted. But with the 101F, he could communicate - or rather, be communicated with - by magnetic tape. I don't think he ever picked up a ringing phone again. The phone would ring twice, then the distinctive click as the machine picked up, playing back his message of >>please leave your name and number at the tone<< and he could decide, if it was Ralf or Emil or me, to pick up the phone, or just let the unknown person speak to the tape. As far as Flori was concerned, it was magic.

At the end of January, I turned 21, not with fanfare and celebrations - and thankfully not with the threatened visitations from my parents - but with an intimate dinner with Flori at a fancy restaurant overlooking the Rhine. He toasted me with a bottle of the very best champagne and smirked at me wickedly over the bubbles. >>So now you're of age, I no longer have to ask anyone's permission to have my way with you<< he teased.

>>it wasn't _that_ you needed to ask permission for. It was the whole marriage business << I reminded him, though either way, I found it was something of a relief. I was officially an adult now, and considered my own property, rather than belonging to my father or a husband.

>>Are you sure you don't want me to make an honest woman of you now?<< I couldn't really tell if he was teasing or serious. They were often one and the same, with Flori.

I shrugged and smiled at him, taking his hand across the table, and stroking his somewhat hairy knuckles. The way that Flori abruptly sprouted thick hair from various parts of his anatomy as if to make up for that he was losing from his forehead continually intrigued me. >>I like the way things are right now. I don't want anything to change.<<

>>OK<< he agreed. >>Then are you going to give me a ride home on your birthday present?<<

I burst out laughing, trying to imagine it. He had wanted to buy me a rather expensive diamond ring for my birthday, but I didn't like the symbolism of another ring, and really, diamonds were not something I needed any more of in my life. So instead, I asked him to buy me a new bicycle as a present, as the trusty second-hand steed that had been carrying me around since I arrived in Düsseldorf really was more rust than metal at this point.

To be fair, despite Flori's total lack of interest in cycling, and indeed, his slight mistrust of the machines themselves, he had thrown himself into researching the best bicycle that his money could buy. I had just expected another reliable old Raleigh, albeit a slightly newer version, but Flori got mildly obsessed with the mechanics of the thing, ordering a racing frame from one company, and a set of Shimano gears from another, and an adjustable leather saddle from a third, before having Peter assemble the resulting creature in his workshop. It was an absolutely beautiful bicycle - and even better, it was now leopard-spotted - but I still could not get Flori to bring himself to go anywhere near one of the mechanical beasts.

>>They are dangerous<< he insisted, as if he himself did not drive like a complete maniac, terrorising the streets of Düsseldorf with his parents' Mercedes.

>>They are not. Did you know, a bicycle saved my great-grandfather's life?<<

>>This is nonsense<< insisted Flori.

>>It's not nonsense. It was his job, when our mine was first discovered, to wrap the uncut diamonds up in a bit of cloth, and cycle with them, the 50 miles there and back to Kimberley to sell them. So one day, during a terrible dry spell which made the wild animals very bold, as he was cycling along the track, a lioness leapt out at him from the bush.<<

>>A lioness or a bicycle, hmmmm, I'm not sure which is more dangerous. A lion can eat you, sure, but... Well. You are here, so obviously your grandfather did not perish.<<

>>Are you going to be quiet and let me tell the story?<< I pretended to look at him very sternly and he fell quiet, though his eyes glinted with little boy mischief.. >>As the lioness attacked, he leapt off his bicycle, and picked it up and brandished it towards the lion. And the lion was so terrified by the clanking and the metal and the spinning wheels, that it gave up attacking and ran off into the bush yowling like a giant tabby-cat. So you see, the bicycle saved his life.<<

>>Hmmm> said Flori suspiciously. >>I think you are telling _mince-pies_. <<

>>I think you are mangling English. It's _pork-pies_ , and anyway, it is not a _porky_. It's the honest truth. You can ask any of my relatives. << Reaching across the table, I touched the tip of his nose to show that I was only teasing him affectionately. He took my hand and kissed it, then laughed.

We finished our dinner, then wrapped ourselves up in our warm coats, me in a fuzzy white sheepskin that had long ago replaced the ugly boiled wool duffle coat, and him in his distinguished camel-hair coat and felt hat. And we walked home along the river, laughing and trundling the new bicycle between us, with Flori trying to play tricks with it, balancing it with one hand on its saddle as he pushed it along.


	48. Kohoutek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Power Station go to France to play their first gigs outside Germany, but a quarrel between Florian and Jan sends her back to England without him.

In February, we packed up the trailer full of Power Station's gear, and drove West to Paris for this "experimental German music" festival, and stayed a week to play a few more gigs in France. Emil and Peter drove out in the trust old VW with them, while Isabella and I followed in her sporty little coupe. I don't know why a band comprised of two people needed a "crew" of four, but with a stage manager, a technician and two girlfriends, it was more like a travelling party than a tour. It was Power Station's first time playing outside of Germany, and they were very excited, and keen for the performances to be well received.

The French audiences were much cooler than the German audiences, a bit standoffish, a bit detached, especially Parisian crowds, who seemed more interested in striking poses and being seen to be a bit above-it-all. Isabella and I had expected Parisian women to be so much more stylish than German women, and dressed up accordingly; Isabella in a gossamer maxi-dress, and myself in a daring Jil Sanders mini-dress that left an inch or two of bare skin exposed between the bottom of my skirt and the top of my stockings. But to our dismay, we found that all of the Parisian women were slouching around the festival in dungarees and turtlenecks and shirts daubed with revolutionary slogans. It was most disappointing! Especially given how much more _forward_ French men were in showing their appreciation for my outfit than I was used to from reserved German men. I inched closer to Flori, who I knew particularly loved that dress, though I had already seen Ralf clucking his tongue at the amount of flesh I had on display. But Flori was distracted by setting up his synthesiser, leaving me to fend off the leering Parisians by thrusting my ring at them and hissing "Je suis mariée!"

Flori and Ralf set up their electronic nests on the stage, and sat there in aloof detachment in the semi-dark, with only the small directional bulbs of the kitsch lamp to light their instruments. Flori's satin trousers seemed to catch the low lights and shimmer in the darkness, but Ralf's black leather outfit was like a black hole, rendering him dark and mysterious. The disdainful French audience was intrigued by their aloofness, and started to crowd closer as they played. Peter had made them a new rhythm machine, which could not only be set to play pre-programmed patterns, but could have the sounds triggered individually, and the lights from this 'sequencer' pattern flashed mysteriously in the darkness. 

Between the two of them and all their electronic machines, they needed so much power that they decided to make a feature of it. Peter did not trust French electricity to run German equipment, so he built a huge transformer, humming with electricity like their own titular power plant. From this transformer ran a long strip of plugs, each with its own little glowing blue light to show when it was in use, and this glowing strip ran between them - some people said, like an umbilical cord connecting the two men like twins in their electronic wombs.

In the background, Emil and his trusty Super-8 projected not the usual psychedelic lightshow that the other bands all seemed to rely on, but strange, abstract squiggles of light that seemed to writhe and dance in time with the very minimalist, very electronic music. And so, despite the Festival having been billed as a group of German artists sharing a certain common theme, Power Station came across as being like absolutely nothing else on the bill. They were at that point, at their most shy and insular, and they appeared almost totally self-absorbed, looking at no one except each other, Flori's eyes barely raised from the tip of his flute. Compared to Power Station's elegant, understated minimalism, even Tangerine Dream, with their mountainous piles of huge, expensive Moog technology, seemed like hopelessly old-fashioned baroque symphonies by comparison.

I don't know that it endeared Power Station to their compatriots, who already thought of them as odd and awkward and a bit antisocial, though Ralf did his best, hanging around at soundcheck to ask questions about other musicians' synthesisers. Ralf often tried to be friendly, in a diplomatic sort of way, with people in other bands, but he came across as arrogant, often without even meaning to. He had a quiet, slightly cautious way of holding back from conversation that made other musicians feel like they were being studied, though I knew that was just Ralf's natural reticence, which became even more heightened when he smoked marijuana, which was certainly available in abundance at this festival. Flori, on the other hand, didn't even try. He liked whom he liked, and could not be bothered with impressing anyone else.

We enjoyed ourselves in France enormously. Isabella and Emil went home at the end of the weekend since they had jobs, but I stayed on for the rest of the week, as the band had been booked to perform at various universities and venues around the outskirts of Paris. It was the first time that Flori and I had properly travelled as a couple, and we took the afternoons off to go strolling through the city together, hand in hand, all bundled up in our warm coats. He, of course, had been to Paris many times before, with his family, and took great pride in showing me around.

It truly was a romantic city, and we stayed out until darkness fell and the streets lit up in sparkling golden lights, as night fell so early at that time of year. We foolishly did all the romantic clichés, ate at charming cafes, walked along the Seine hand in hand, huddled together for warmth, the plumes of our breaths mingling in the frosty air, but being with Flori made it somehow feel special. He squeezed my hand and nudged me surreptitiously and whispered in my ear that he liked walking with me, as I was the only woman who only ever walked as fast as he did. I loved his upright, purposeful stride; I could always pick him out of a crowd of strangers, even at night, in a foreign city.

There was a full moon on their night off, so the city was oddly bright, but the early dusk made us a little bold, as we crossed a bridge and looked down into a small walled park on an island in the Seine. Flori and I looked at one another, our eyes flashing, as he grinned his lopsided smile at me, and suddenly we both had the same idea, clambering over the wall, and hopping down into the garden. Kissing in the soft darkness, I felt so alive, aroused by the warmth of his mouth, his hands on the back of my neck, plunging my own arms beneath his coat for warmth.

He spotted a bench, off in a pool of darkness away from the street lamps, and tugged me towards it. As he sat down, I think he intended me to sit next to him, but I just climbed up onto his lap, straddling him with my knees. Both of us were gasping and giggling, as if kind of daring one another on, to really do it, that ridiculously short Jil Sanders dress riding up around my waist as Flori pulled my huge furry coat around us both for privacy. Under the coat, he unbuttoned the front of the dress, his eyes glinting very blue in the dark as he pulled my breasts out to kiss them, and suddenly I was moving against him urgently, reaching down to pull out his cock. Oh, I blush to think of it, now, but I suppose you are only young once, and Paris was so very beautiful, and it seemed somehow natural for the two of us to end up making love on that park bench in the dark. 

We clung to each other, rocking back and forth and trying to be quiet. But, laughing and breathless, I showered his face with kisses as I came, both of us so happy and in love that nothing seemed to matter except our own pleasure. I could see from his face that he was close, his eyes very wide and round, his mouth gurning, and then that long low moan of satisfaction as he reached orgasm, and we both fell back panting, a little dazed by our own recklessness. We didn't even have the excuse of drunkenness, we were just dizzy with love and the moonlight and the magic of Paris.

But we quickly came to our senses as we heard the yap of a nearby dog and realised that we were not alone in the small park. Fumbling with our clothes we buttoned ourselves back up, laughing and blushing and kissing one another, until we felt presentable enough to stroll out through the open gate, hand in hand, heads held high. I have never done anything like that before or since, so I can blame only Paris and the full moon, but it was a magical night, and even the mention of Paris for years to come would make us smile and blush and wink at one another in a secret shared memory.

By the end of the week, the band's performances, both at the festival and the universities, certainly made an impression on the French. The television programme that was recorded at the festival played a large segment of their set, and singled them out for unique praise as the throbbing electronic voice of modern industrial Germany. To capitalise on this favourable international coverage, an English record company had bought the international rights to the first two Power Station albums, and released them as a special double album in the UK. It seemed that no less than John Peel - whose mellifluous voice had been the backbone of Radio London when I was a teenager - had started championing the new wave of German bands under the unlikely moniker 'Krautrock'. My friends all laughed at this John Peel invention - Ralf and Flori called their music 'machine-music'; Klaus and Michael called their music 'motion music' which we all liked, and Ralf was really a little jealous that he hadn't thought of first; while Can and Cluster preferred to call their hippie-infused psychedelic jams 'cosmic music'. 

And Ralf, but even moreso Flori, were still very much snobs when it came to music. They just did not like the direction that English music was going in. The big thing that spring was the new Pink Floyd album, and someone told Flori that he might like this _Dark Side of the Moon_ , because it was 'Space Rock' and the band were all using synthesisers. So he and Ralf sat down and listened to it, and as the two of them listened, it became increasingly clear from their faces that they absolutely _hated_ it.

Maybe it was the narcissism of small difference, because Pink Floyd was the band that so many of the German "kosmische" bands were incessantly compared to, though it was obvious from the music that the only English band that was anywhere near bands like NEW! or Tangerine Dream was the perpetually ragged and strange Hawkwind. ( _Space Ritual_ , another record that came out later that year, was an album that Flori liked to make fun of when I played it, however he never actually asked me take it off the record player.)

Ralf listened studiously to this _Dark Side of the Moon_ on our good stereo system, and just looked slightly smug, safe in the knowledge that this cod-psychedelia was not the slightest bit near what they were doing. But Flori turned poisonous in a way that always meant he was deeply annoyed by something.  >>This is revolting! Who was it that thought I might like this? Was it Heidi, did she make you buy this record, Ralf?<<

>>You bought the record, not I<< said Ralf, somewhat priggishly.

>>I think Jan bought the record, actually<< Flori sniffed, looking at me with a wounded expression for having brought the thing into the house. >>It is my wife that likes to keep up with this awful English music, not I.<<

>>Is this even the same band that did Piper At The Gates Of Dawn?<< I asked cautiously, trying to remember what it was about them that had made Valerie and follow them to every gig across London.

But Flori _loathed_ it, forcing us to listen all the way through to cement his hatred of it.  >>All that money<< he spat. >>All that technology, all of the latest gear from EMS and Moog and ARP, and this is what they come up with? This is complete _shit_. <<

(Shit - not even a good old German _Scheisse_ , which I was starting to pick up the bad habit of using - had become Flori's absolute favourite swearword, the one English word he could be relied on to produce for any and all occasions.)

So when Power Station were invited to fly to England and do a tour, including a performance for John Peel, Ralf and Flori merely laughed at it, and turned it down, saying that English music was _shit_ , and that they did not want to tour England.

It was one of the few rows that Flori and I ever had, mostly because he and Ralf turned the tour down flat before he even mentioned it to me. Not that I felt like I had any right to have a say in what their band did. But it was something that I would have liked to have been consulted on! I might have been able to give them some reasonable advice on where to play and where to avoid, instead of just Ralf's arrogant point-blank assertion that the English music scene wasn't worth bothering with. (After all, if it wasn't worth bothering with, why was he so miffed that Ruckzuck had failed to garner much radio play there on the record's re-release?)

I was absolutely furious with Flori, tearing around the house in a rage, alternately howling at him that he didn't care about me if he didn't care enough to go to my home country and play on the most important radio show in the UK, so that my family and friends might all find out who it was that I had married; and when that failed, flouncing off in a door-slamming rage. But Flori did not know who John Peel was, and didn't really care either.

>>I am not a cabbage<< he shouted back, quite irate. >>And I do not play cabbage-rock! So why should I go to England and be a performing cabbage for this idiot Peel?<<

>>Because John Peel is someone that _means_ something to me. And I have not been back to England for nearly three years. Here was our chance to go, and you've spoiled it << I moaned, flinging myself down at the corner of the dining room table beside him, and trying to beseech him into changing his mind.

>>Well, go back to England. I am not stopping you.<< he tossed back with an angry shrug. I had never known a man with quite such expressive shoulderblades.

>>But I want you to go with me<< I wailed.

>>You don't want me to go with you, you want my band to go with you, and play at being performing cabbages for your British Broadcasting Company<< Flori pointed out. He could really be quite pedantic when he put his mind to it.

Since he had brought it up, I circled back to the same argument. >>But why won't you tour the UK? You'll tour Germany or France at the drop of a hat. I think you're afraid. I think you know that British audiences are more sophisticated than French or German audiences, and you're afraid that an audience that has already seen David Bowie and Roxy Music will not be impressed with Power Station..<<

That really got Flori's back up, as he glared at me, his eyes like two slivers of ice under the grim line of his pale eyebrows. >>I am not afraid of Roxy Music or Ziggy Stardust or _The Dark Shite of the Moon_ or whathaveyou. We are too busy to tour the UK. Peter and I have been building a recording studio, down on Mintropstrasse, and it is at too critical a stage to leave it to go off on tour. Now I am not going to the UK, and that is final. <<

I was both angry and bereft, for reasons I couldn't adequately explain. It wasn't even about the tour - and certainly not about John Peel or David Bowie - it was about a vague sense of injustice, at how completely I had been absorbed into his life, into his family, and yet he had never even expressed the slightest curiosity about meeting mine. I wrote to his sister every week, (I realised guiltily that I did actually write to Claudia more often than I wrote to my mother) and had lunch with Paul or Evamaria at least once a month, in fact I usually arranged all of our family occasions with his parents, and yet he had never even met any of my family. Flori of course blamed me for this - he said I was so secretive about them that he had assumed that I didn't want him to meet them. Perhaps, indeed, I was ashamed of my cabbage-boyfriend!

The argument just spiralled and spiralled, until we were both furious at one another. He wanted to know why was it so important to me to go to England _now_ , when I hadn't once expressed any wish to go, in the previous three years? Well, fine, I shouted back, I was done with waiting for a convenient point in his career, and looked up a travel agent in the phone directory.

I went to England without him; I packed up and went to visit my father for a week at the end of March. It was the first time I'd seen my family in nearly 3 years, and England seemed very strange to me. To hear English spoken on the street, I kept turning my head wondering if they were foreigners. And the accents of Manchester! I was disoriented by the money and just when I was trying to remember how many shillings and pence made a pound, someone told me that British money was all decimal now, so get with the times! When did that happen? What had they done with the poor shillings?

My father looked very much the same, his hair a little whiter, his shoulders a little more slumped from long hours in front of a computer screen, but otherwise unchanged. We didn't talk much, but that was normal. We had never talked much, though I liked to watch him work, and I liked to listen to him read. As I looked at him, bent over some piece of circuitry he had brought home from work, I realised with a start how much Flori reminded me of him sometimes, that same dedicated curiosity, that same piercing blue stare examining the world at the tip of a screwdriver. I missed Flori suddenly, and sharply, but I had my pride.

Although my father apologised and did his best to explain that his life was very sedate these days, he still tried his best to think of things to amuse me. His current big amusement was following the discovery of a new comet by a Czech astronomer, and we searched the newspapers and science journals for details of this astonishing new celestial object that was due to blaze across our skies, visible even to the naked eye, later that year. He even arranged for the pair of us to receive an invitation to a special lecture to be given on this Kohoutek Comet at Jodrell Bank. We made a day of it, and drove out in the afternoon to have a tour. When he flashed his University ID, we were allowed to wander around the facilities, sitting in the grass to watch the radiotelescopes do their slow dance across the sky.

>>We came here to watch the Lovell Telescope being built. Do you remember that? I suppose not, you couldn't have been more than five.<< he said mistily, and I knew that in his head, as we ate packed sandwiches, he was still seeing the 5 year old daughter, not the 21 year old adult.

>>I do actually remember, you know<< I assured him. In fact, I might have told Flori that it was one of my earliest memories, watching the giant dish go up, after making a detour to drive past the newly-erected Effelsberg telescope on the way back from one of our visits to the Telefunken research facility.

I abandoned my pride, and rang Flori that night, though I messed up a bit on the time zones, forgetting how many hours Germany was ahead of the UK. My voice on the answerphone actually woke him, but to his credit, he did pick up, sounding more than slightly cranky, late at night. He was sleepy, but I could hear the loneliness in his voice, as he stayed on the phone anyway, murmuring approvingly as I told him about the giant antenna dishes. It turned out that he, too, had been following the discovery of the new comet with great interest. He and Ralf had already started writing a song in anticipation of the event! Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine the tiny filaments of wire binding us together across the North Sea as we spoke, pleased that there were still these odd obsessions that linked us intellectually. Fighting had been awful, but I realised at that moment that it had been the right decision to go. Absence, and missing one another had made us both realise exactly how much we _needed_ one another.

The next day, my father took me to his work, and introduced me round the Ferranti office with a pride that surprised me, his grown-up daughter who was studying computing in West Germany, to see how the Krauts did it. It had never occurred to me before, that my father might actually have become pleased with the idea that I was following in his footsteps. His colleagues, to my surprise and pleasure, did not see a 5 year old, they saw a competent young woman whom they grilled on the state of West German computing, and asked breathlessly if we ever got the chance to examine any Soviet technology. The Soviets were supposed to be ahead of us all, but I sighed and told them it was harder to get into East Germany than it was to get out of the Convent School I had attended while growing up. They all laughed, and we had a convivial lunch together. Oh, I wished Flori had come with me, because they would all have loved him, been charmed by his poetic descriptions of the wonders and possibilities of technology, delivered in that thick Rhineland accent.

By the time I was due to go home - and I realised with a start that that hochhaus in Düsseldorf _was_ my home now, not my father's house - the sensation of missing Flori was as sharp as a physical pang. And when I stepped off the plane at Köln-Bonn Flughafen, there, in his blue-grey suit, stood Flori, craning his neck, looking through the crowd so worriedly and so sheepishly that I knew I was not alone in my longing.

As soon as he saw me, he pushed silently through the crowd, and suddenly long arms were around me, encircling me, pulling me towards him, as he wrapped himself around me and buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply. >>My little English Mouse<< he sighed, squeezing me so that I almost couldn't breathe. >>Next time you go away, I go with you, OK?<<

I murmured my assent as I crushed my face against his chest, the smell of his Weleda as reassuring as the burble of German conversation all around me. The week abroad had brought home to me not just my emotional interdependence and intertwinedness with Flori, but the shocking realisation that I no longer thought of myself as English or even South African. I felt a part of Düsseldorf.

And best of all, as Flori drove me home and took me up to an apartment that smelled of food preparation and all my favourite spices, was my sense of relief. We had had our first really big, potential-break-up fight, and we had survived. Our relationship was a happy one; we worked well together. As I watched Flori finish preparing supper and serve it with a flourish, I thought how lucky I was to have a househusband who genuinely enjoyed cooking and sorting out meals. In fact, he actively loved shopping, and would happily go to three or four different markets a week, to obtain the best fruit and the freshest vegetables. That, he had inherited from his mother; they were all avid shoppers, his mother and his sisters.

We made a good team, I thought, as after we finished our meal, I cleared up. He cooked and I did the dishes; I washed, and he dried and put the plates away. We shared everything like that, in a way that I was certainly aware that not all of our friends did. He sorted the clothes and did the laundry; I dropped his suits and his good shirts at the dry cleaners on my way to the Atelier. It was an unusually equitable relationship, especially for the early 70s. (Though looking back on it, having the maid that his parents still paid to come twice a week did spare us a great deal of arguments as well as housework.) But it took me a long time to realise that it was not his feminist sisters who had raised him that way; he was actually trying to be as little like his own domineering, male chauvinist father as humanly possible. He did his own chores as a matter of pride; his independence had been hard won.

While I was gone, Power Station had stopped playing live, and holed themselves up in their studio to write songs - of which the Kohoutek melody was only the first - and learn about technology. The pair of them became obsessed with buying the latest kit when it was available, or having it built for them when it wasn't. Ralf, who would never really stop being an organist at heart, preferred synthesisers that at least looked like organs, preferably with two keyboards and the buttons ranged above like the stops of an organ. Flori, by contrast, preferred synthesisers that looked like the control deck of a rocket ship, all knobs and wires and strange gauges with arcane symbols on them.

He was beside himself with joy, one afternoon, when he came home with an odd-looking thing with a handle on top that looked more like a piece of luggage than a musical instrument. "Every nun needs a Synthi" he told me, in English, with a crooked grin.

I was mystified until he opened it up, and revealed rows of brightly coloured knobs, and a patchbay that looked a bit like a telephone switchboard. It didn't even come with a keyboard, but Flori had never been particularly enamoured of piano keyboards, so he tuned it by ear, marvelling at the strange, burbling, slithering noises that came out of it.

>>You could control this with anything, really<< Peter announced when he stopped by to marvel over this new toy. >>I'm sure I could build you a controller that played like a flute... Well, if you could first explain to me precisely how it is that a flute works. But I'll build a flute-controller when we're done putting the finishing touches on the recording studio.<<

Honestly, I thought Peter and Flori would go on building that recording studio forever. Peter had graduated from Engineering School the previous semester, and though most of his classmates and professors thought he would go off to work for a big electrical goods firm, he surprised everyone by moving back in with his parents and opening his own electronics workshop in a barn on his parents' farm. And his first clients were, of course, Flori and Ralf. After a few weeks on tour, and enough nights marvelling over the beautiful girls at the Creamcheese Club, Peter had decided that working for a big electronics firm was just too boring, and he would rather hang about making gear for rock stars. In the early 70s, the field was wide open. No one in Germany made electronic musical equipment, and importing the stuff from the States was impossibly expensive, so Peter could set his own hours and his own rates, and do exactly what he loved. He built electronic gear from scratch, and fixed up old cars just for fun.

And Ralf and Flori now certainly had the money to spend on kitting out their personal studio. Despite the somewhat mixed reviews of Power Station 2, their first two albums together had sold over 100,000 copies, and that wasn't even counting the sales that were starting to come in from the UK and France. They were an unqualified success, though honestly, no success would ever be big enough to convince Paul Schneider-Esleben, who still hoped that Flori would give up this music lark and come and join him and his sister in the architectural practice.

\----------

As Hütter and Schneider consolidated and plotted, Weber und Schneider had big plans of our own. For the Spring Collection of 1973, our growing design firm had planned our largest venture yet. We now had exclusive deals with boutiques or department stores in half a dozen cities! Orders had come in from London, Paris, Marseilles, Antwerp, Hamburg and Frankfurt, as well as our home town of Düsseldorf. Myrthe and I sat down and did the figures, ordering the textiles, sending them to the printers, then trying to work out how long it would take for our small team to produce the clothes. The figures were astronomical, but Myrthe assured me that on this scale, the profits would be exponentially larger.

Then it was left to negotiate with our staff. I suggested that we sweeten the news by offering Banu and Zaide another pay-rise, as we would certainly be able to afford it. But Zaide surprised me, by proving to be a shrewd negotiator.

>>We don't want an hourly pay-rise<< she told me. >>We want the extra money to be paid by the piece.<<

>>This is not a good idea<< I told them, worried. >>We are after quality, not quantity.<<

>>And what's to stop you doing all the pieces in a rush, and knocking off early?<< added Myrthe, with her eye always on the bottom line. >>You are good workers, your quality is very high, but we do not want to lose that, with the increased volume.<<

>>Yes, but if you pay us by the piece, we have an aunt, and a cousin, we can bring them in, and pick up the extra work when it gets very busy.<< said Zaide

Myrthe and I exchanged glances. >>Can we afford that?<<

>>You most certainly can<< insisted Zaide. >>I've seen the orders.<<

I was for the idea, but Myrthe was against, so we let Silke cast the deciding vote. Silke was very, very busy driving all over France, Belgium and Germany meeting with potential buyers, so she said didn't care who we hired, but it was critically important to get the orders on time. If hiring new people was what it took, then we should hire new people and pay them by the piece if that was how they wanted to be paid. Silke, although she didn't seem as unhappy as she had been over the winter, had become very distracted, as if she were simply spread too thin. But a vote was a vote, and I was pleased with the result.

The aunt and the cousin joined our staff, and our Roxy Music-loving intern went full-time. I was terrified, because for the first time, we had to take out a bank loan to cover it all. I fussed, but Myrthe kept insisting it was good business sense. Even if we only sold half the clothes in the orders, we could repay the loan, and the credit meant that we could pay the extra staff to produce the larger orders in the first place. What was more, if we repaid the loan promptly, we built good credit, and would be able to borrow more in the future. But I just hated putting my name against such a huge sum!

Terrified of how much money was at stake, I abandoned the computer lab and my wonderful little mouse controller for a few weeks, and threw myself into the Atelier. We all worked in shifts, Myrthe in the morning, Silke in the afternoon, and me at night, and the sewing machines had to hum all night for a couple of weeks, but thanks to the reinforcements that Zaide drummed up, we got the orders completed! I wanted to gasp when I first saw that amount of clothes, their jewel-tones under shiny plastic wrap, waiting on racks to be loaded into Johannes' distribution vans. Had we really pulled it off? 

We broke out the Sekt in celebration, and our seamstresses produced Turkish delicacies and I even saw Zaide and her young cousin nip a tiny half-glass of the sparkling wine in celebration, when their elders weren't looking. Not-so-strict Muslims, it seemed! Myrthe and I agreed: after all her hard work getting the extra seamstresses organised, we were promoting Zaide to Production Manager, and giving her not a wage, but a full salary, well, once our loan was paid off. Banu positively swelled with pride, and even Zaide looked fairly pleased with the promotion.

But when it came time to arrange promotional photographs of the clothes, I realised that I could no longer work with Helmut. We were speaking to him over the phone, the three of us, Silke, Myrthe and myself gathered round the speaker in Silke's office, as he described his vision for the new campaign. It would be political, he told us, and we all nodded.

>>Yes, it would be good to do something topical and political<< said Silke cautiously, though I could see Myrthe mentally tabulating the benefits of appearing hip versus the costs of offending our backers.

>>The police<< said Helmut, with a strange breathy tone to his voice. >>Breaking up a nest of radicals. The radicals, of course, are beautiful young women, dressed very stylishly, though somewhat distressed due to the raid. I see two or three young women, on the floor, kneeling on the floor I should think... arms handcuffed behind their backs. You will have to work very hard on the correct posture, not slouching but defiant; shoulders back, chests thrust forward, knees wide...<<

As he talked, Silke and I exchanged glances, our eyes widening in horror, as his voice grew more breathy describing the scene with an excitement that did not seem to me purely aesthetic.

>>We will have to hire actors for the police, yes? But shown only from the waist down. Leather boots, knee-high leather boots, jodhpurs, very shiny black leather belts with oversize buckles. The women, kneeling on the floor, clothes and hair artfully disarranged. I think perhaps you can do the shadow of bruises with make-up, yes? Shirts sliding off white shoulders due to rough handling, the hint of breasts beneath. No bras, I know you radicals never wear bras.<< The slight titter of laughter made me feel sick. >>I see it, heads tilted back just so, with a look of defiance, hatred, even... It would be good if we could get one of the police to loosen his belt...<<

Feeling my skin prickling, I just looked back and forth between Myrthe and Silke, my eyes filled with horror, mouthing the words >>No. Absolutely not!<< I felt like I needed a bath, just listening to him describing the scene; I had no desire to take part in it.

Silke, realising that I was very close to sputtering my objections aloud, picked up the receiver of the phone, and snapped off the speaker. >>Helmut<< she said firmly. >>Thank you for your ideas. We will think about it, and get back to you. Thank you, goodbye, Helmut.<<

>>Absolutely, unquestionably not!<< I erupted, once Silke had put the phone down. >>He has gone too far this time. This is not fashion - or even art. This is just pornography, and I refuse to be a part of his disgusting fantasies!<<

Myrthe shook her head, though she was in complete agreement. >>No, this is not our kind of thing at all. And it's making a mockery of what we do believe in. I am against it.<<

>>I don't know<< hedged Silke. >>It's very edgy. A little bit of sex, the hint of violence. If we do it right, it could be a brilliant and provocative statement _against_ police violence. <<

>>It's Helmut<< I spat. >>It's not going to be provocative or edgy - it's just going to be degrading sexual role-play. I refuse to pander to this man's grotesque libido any more. I won't do it.<<

As Silke looked back and forth between us, Myrthe nodded. >>No, I agree with Jan. This is going too far. I do not like it.<<

Silke sighed and rolled her beautiful china-doll eyes. >>Well, what do you propose to do instead?<<

I took a deep breath. >>I"ve been taking photographs of Power Station for over a year now. I've got quite good with a camera. How about you let me do the photography, instead of that old pervert?<<


	49. Sale or Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weber und Schneider's Spring 1973 design collection is savaged by the German fashion press. Or is it personal sabotage? But Jan is being seduced away from her textile career by an exciting new branch of recently-discovered mathematics.
> 
> And meanwhile, Claudia and Hans-Joachim seem to be having trouble, as Hans-Joachim spends more and more time at the studio in Forst.

For the next week, I sat down and planned my promotional photography nearly as carefully as we had planned the collection itself. Silke, to my great surprise, loved all my ideas for the new campaign. I was so flattered and pleased that she agreed to let me shoot the photos without a fuss that it took me a few days to realise that the winds had changed, and her keenness was as much about finally getting rid of Helmut as it was encouraging my new career as a photographer. But I set up my camera and my light metres and my reflective baffles to capture natural light, and I photographed of course Silke, and then Isabella, and Lotte, our pretty young intern, and at the last minute, Myrthe got cold feet, and Zaide stepped in. I photographed our business-ladies in the beautiful clothes, in the most ordinary of places, in Isabella's office, at the bus stop, in the cafe across the street, and answering the phone in our own reception, though maybe our silver and dove grey walls were not particularly ordinary. 

I thought it was quite playful, the fantasy of these glamourous outfits in situations that would have been very familiar to any professional German woman. But the German fashion press, who had been so supportive over the previous two years, and so complimentary during the previous season, completely turned on us.

>>Dowdy office workers in the most depressingly ordinary and unimaginative series of ads<< declared one style column. >>Silke Weber and Jan Schneider have completely run out of ideas, so they appear to have just nipped out to the cafe, the bus stop, the local office and photographed whatever drab creatures they found there<< sniffed another.

I cringed, not least because I felt that I had betrayed my friends by exposing them to such harsh and cruel opinions.

>>I don't care<< declared Isabella, and I wished I could have expressed her equanimity over the matter. >>The clothes are lovely, and I'm very happy with the photos. I plan on enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame, no matter what the magazines say.<< Her staff had clipped the advertisement out of a magazine and framed it and hung it on the wall of her office, with a little placard saying >>She is the boss!<< underneath, so she was pleased as punch. 

And it did not hurt Ralf's pride, to be seen with a young woman who now not only turned heads but also attracted admiring whispers in public. Ralf, despite his austere appearance, secretly _loved_ the world of couture, with its beautiful and stylish clothes and its even more beautiful and stylish women. He always loved good design. There was nothing Ralf would have enjoyed more, than to be thought of as really _fashionable_ ; and stepping out with a girl who had her picture in magazines wearing the latest clothes, that pleased him in a way he wouldn't always entirely admit to.

Silke, however, took it very badly. Perhaps Silke was a bit like Ralf before Aachen, a kind of golden child who had never failed at anything. But it seemed to knock the self-assurance out of her. I had always admired Silke's brash confidence, even when I did not always admire her morality, but now she seemed to be second-guessing everything. She fretted bitterly at first, saying: we had bitten off more than we could chew with the massive collection; overextended ourselves. But the next day she had changed her mind, and the clothes had been OK, but the amateurish promotional material had let us down, and we could not afford to be so sloppy in the future. Well, sure, I was perfectly willing to admit that I was still learning the ropes of photography, but that did sting a little. But the next day, she had forgotten the photography and was in a state of paranoid worry about the loans and the advance payment and whether or not we would ever make back the investment.

This fear, however, Myrthe shared with her also. A bad review was easily shrugged off, but if the clothes did not sell, then we were in big trouble. It wasn't just the three of us any more, it was a whole business of eight people, with a bank manager relying on us to repay an enormous loan!

But then, the reviews from the rest of Europe started to trickle in, and they were far more favourable. One of our light tailored jackets was featured in a summer buying guide in French Vogue! And then, a stroke of good fortune, the film star Romy Schneider was photographed at an interview in Paris wearing one of our dresses, and she made a little joke on her surname, and the name of the company. The Boutique in Paris sold out of our collection, and wanted to know how quickly we could send more, and Marseilles and Antwerp were similarly fortunate.

But the German press was still savage with us. Silke was in floods of tears over what was supposed to have been a puff piece, but took an oddly personal tone. They insinuated that our success was reliant more on our personal charms than our talent, and implied that Silke was a bit of a gold-digger who was sleeping her way to the top, trading on her association with her fiancé's job in distribution. It was the sort of thing that Myrthe had warned her about, the previous season, and they started to argue about it fiercely. But something in the piece struck me as odd. >>Silke Weber and Jan Schneider were modelling in a student fashion show when Schneider was talent scouted as a model by photographer Helmut Pfarrer.<<

That was not exactly how it had happened! But as I flipped to the front of the magazine to find the name of the editor to write a letter of correction saying we had been scouted as designers, not as models, a name caught my eye. Art Director: Helmut Pfarrer.

I went to the files, and dug through them for clippings of the bad reviews. (Silke insisted that we keep them all, good and bad, because, she told us, she thought we could learn from the negative opinions, but really, I suspected she might be a bit of a masochist sometimes.) I wrote down the names of the papers, then I went to the shop and bought the morning editions. As it turned out, every single one of them employed Helmut as a photo editor, a freelance photographer, or some other in-house art function.

>>That bastard!<< I howled aloud, and ran upstairs to show Silke.

Silke stared at the evidence before her. >>That snake in the grass<< she spat. >>I thought he had been awfully quiet about our incorporating and cutting him out of the finder's commission. But then I suppose we kept him sweet by paying him above industry rates for the photography he was doing for us.<<

>>But he didn't do the photography on this campaign. I did.<< Raising my eyes, I looked at Silke in horror. >>I thought he didn't sue us for cutting him out of the fee because you were blackmailing him with the threat of telling his wife...<<

Shaking her head slowly, she sifted through the bad reviews again and again, though surely she had already memorised them, she had read them so many times. >>No. There was no more affair - I stopped sleeping with him around the time I started seeing Johannes. It was just the money he wanted. Bastard.<< She bit her lip sulkily. >>Now, I think perhaps I would have preferred it if he had just sued us. We could have had it out in the open. But this... this slow poisoning...<<

>>Well, at least we know it's not about us, and our talent now. It's Helmut's bullshit. Don't take it to heart.<<

We dispatched another order off to Paris, but the domestic sales remained disappointing. None of the German boutiques sold out.

>>It's OK<< Myrthe assured us. >>The French and Belgian boutiques have all sold well. If the exchange rate holds, that is just enough to cover the loan when it comes due. We will be OK. Honestly, we will be OK.<<

But then the returns started coming back, which sent Silke into a darker mood. >>We've never had returns before<< she observed, opening the cardboard boxes and staring at the unloved garments in odd sizes that had not sold. She seemed to take every unsold shirt or dress as a personal rebuke.

>>It's completely natural to have returns<< Myrthe assured her. >>That's how commission works - Sale or Return implies the possibility that some pieces might be returned.<<

>>But we've lost money on each and every one of these<< Silke sighed.

>>But we shipped over four times as many pieces as the largest collection we ever did before<< persisted Myrthe, trying to show her the figures. >>Even though yes, there are returns, in sheer volume, we actually sold three times as many clothes as we did last season. And the economies of scale mean that the losses on the returns are not even as much as you think. We are coming out ahead.<<

I took the accounting figures from Myrthe and poured through them - she was right. We hadn't just broken even, we had come out quite some way ahead, with a small but very satisfactory net profit. >>Oh god, what a relief<< I sighed. >>That debt will be paid off, in full.<<

>>But we've never had returns before<< Silke repeated dumbly. >>I don't know, it just feels like we've been rejected.<<

>>It's not as if they're a dead loss<< Myrthe said, moving over and touching her friend gently on the shoulder. >>We can sell them on consignment at second-run boutiques, and either way, they're a tax write-off...<< But it just seemed like Silke's mood was about more than the returns; I just didn't know how to ask her what.

Silke did not seem to recover her bounce over the next few weeks. Although she turned up for work every day, and went into her office to work at her drawing board, she seemed listless and yet somehow restless. She scratched away at her sketchbook, but every time we thought she was getting near having a new set of designs for Myrthe and Zaide to block out into a pattern, she would get frustrated and scrunch it into a ball, before tossing it into the rubbish bin. Zaide said she sometimes crept into the office after hours, and unrolled the balls of paper to see if there was anything salvageable, but she reported that Silke just seemed to be reworking the outfit that she thought had sold so poorly, over and over again.

I didn't worry too much, at first. I knew that inspiration didn't always work to a timetable, it came in fits and bursts and all-night sessions the night before a deadline. And also, I was distracted myself by the upcoming end of term. Now that I was in my third year of study, Professor Grundesbach had encouraged me to write up at least some of my results in a paper, and attempt to have it published in an academic journal. Since I wrote in English, it would be easier for me to be published in one of the more prestigious peer-reviewed publications in the UK or the US, which would bring great kudos to the school. So when, after many coffee-fuelled nights of my own, my paper on The Applications of Morphogenesis In Computer-Generated Art was accepted in a highly regarded American journal of computer science, I was pretty damn pleased with myself.

I got a telegram of congratulations from my father, and then, over the next few months after publication, I received a smattering of letters and papers from other scientists and students working in the same field, around the world. This was the most exciting feeling to me; far more exciting than being interviewed in Parisian Vogue. Because as I discovered that I was being connected into a vast web of people, all around the globe who were obsessed with the same goals and confronting the same problems that I was. Up until I had met Claudia, I had never been a particularly lively letter-writer, but now I found myself in regular correspondence with half a dozen computer scientists and mathematicians around the world.

The most interesting of my new correspondents was a French mathematician living in the United States and working for IBM. Benoit, in fact, had been one of the 'peers' who had peer-reviewed my paper for publication. He had been so interested, not so much by the maths, but by the format in which I prepared and displayed my results in artificial colour, that he had written to me before the issue of the journal even hit the news-stands. We discussed my algorithm and my working methods at first, including the uses I had discovered for the wonderful little-mouse tool. But then he dropped an intriguing little question on me, one that buzzed away in my brain. "Have you ever heard of self-symmetry?" he wanted to know, via aerogramme. "The tendency of otherwise stochastic formations to repeat in remarkably similar formations at vastly different scales."

"Oh yes" I had replied enthusiastically, by airmail. "That was something that I noticed when I tried to refine the magnification on the 'leopard spots'. At every level, more and more finely grained spots appeared. At times, it appeared as if the spots themselves started to develop spots. My friends at Telefunken tell me that they have very similar problems with eliminating static in telecommunications. It's not enough to just boost the volume of the signal - this produces not just louder static, but more and more static in very similar frequency bursts. It is funny - well, funny peculiar, not funny haha - how this problem turns up in such different fields."

HIs reply turned up a week or two later, not on an aerogramme this time, but in a large, bulky brown paper envelope. "I, too, have noticed the same phenomenon. I was initially presented with the puzzle while working on the measurement of coastlines. (I have attached my paper on the subject. Since I have discovered that, despite the name and location, you are British, perhaps you will be amused by the title: _How Long Is The Coastline of Britain? Statistical Self-Similarity and Fractional Dimension_.) But then, while working in a completely unrelated field, investigating the statistical variance of fluctuations in financial markets, I found, to my surprise, almost exactly the same scaled-down repetitions at many different levels. Like you say, it is as if the spots themselves have spots. I would be very interested to know, if you would care to read my paper, your thoughts on this matter."

The paper I found highly amusing. It was indeed, a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. I read it two or three times in a row, then let Flori read it, then read it again, and each time, honestly, I swear I understood it less. Benoit had discovered something deeply weird, in very ordinary objects from clouds to mountains to fern leaves, that no one seemed to have taken much notice of before. I was reeled in, like a fish on a line, and we soon struck up a regular correspondence, as he was convinced that the best way to explore these strange mathematical symmetries would be by teaching a computer to draw them, in increasingly layered detail. And so far, my 'algorithm' - which, to be honest, was no longer a simple algorithm, it was a complex suite of tools for rendering and editing complex mathematical formulas into elaborate full-colour images - was the most suitable program he had seen, for adaptation into displaying the work he was now immersed in. I thought, well, if I could get such a respected scientist interested in my work, perhaps I was onto something good!

\---------

That Spring, Claudia's marital state (or lack thereof) became the endless talking point in the Schneider-Esleben clan. Claudia had announced that if she passed the Architectural Exam and qualified, that she wanted to stay and do her apprenticeship, not at her father's firm down in Düsseldorf, but with some architects' firm in Hamburg. Who knows, she said, maybe she could eventually open up a second Schneider-Esleben office in Hamburg. This, we all knew, was really down to Hans-Joachim's continued residency in Lower Saxony, though Claudia would get cross if anyone suggested that it was not entirely her idea.

>>They will marry soon enough<< Evamaria would say quite wistfully, when discussing her older daughter's future.

But Paul was not so sure. He had seen far more of Achim, up in Hamburg when he was teaching, and though he did like him, and found him a worthy intellectual sparring partner, he had formed a vague distrust of the man as far as his daughter was concerned. He did not think that Achim was entirely serious with regards to the relationship, and tried to impress the need for caution upon his stubborn daughter. Which, of course, only made Claudia more dedicated to him.

Claudia, at that time, wanted to make a name for herself as a designer and an artist, as well as the latest in a famous architectural family. Funnily enough, it was that book on Art Deco that had given her the inspiration for her newest project, as she started to get completely obsessed with neon lights. She was perhaps a little ahead of her time, as in the early 70s, they were still viewed as a little kitschy, and not as cool as they would become by the 80s. But still, she loved their fuzzy glowing beauty and the harsh shadows they cast, and she started making neon-light sculptures, some of them humorous, some of them very abstract.

It was for Florian's birthday in early April that she had brought down a present that would, over the years to come, become very famous indeed. I had let her into the flat ahead of time, and she had set it up on the "dining room table" (really, now it only functioned as Flori's workbench) and covered it with a box wrapped in brightly coloured paper. Flori hadn't really been paying attention to her latest passion, so when he lifted up the box and saw, all of a sudden, his own name, glowing in bright blue neon script within a perspex box, his eyes widened and his expression grew very alert.

>>Do you like it?<< asked Claudia, noting that her brother had gone very, very quiet. >>I couldn't get the O to close, so I was worried it might look like Flurian, but I think it's alright...<<

Florian moved closer, holding his hands over the glowing sign as if warming himself over a glowing fire. >>It's the most beautiful thing you've ever done, Claudia. But can you make me another one? I need a matched set.<<

>>Another one?<< laughed Claudia, her voice light with relief. >>I suppose _Jan_ will be easier, as her name is shorter, but I will have to work at getting better at the letter A. <<

Shaking his head, Flori grinned. >>Not Jan. _Ralf_. <<

I laughed, and rolled my eyes, being reminded once more than I would never be the number one love in Flori's life. But Claudia dutifully went back to her studio in Hamburg and made another box. She did the A much more carefully, so that it was obviously Ralf and not Rulf, and brought it back down to the studio, the final finishing touch. It looked fantastic, those two glowing boxes spelling out the boys' names in lights. It was somehow simultaneously both slightly kitsch pop art, and yet also seemed very advanced and cutting-edge. It was so bubblegum, so Monkees, the casual use of their first names - and yet their names were so singularly, defiantly Teutonic. "Ralf und Florian", as names, seemed deliberately a million miles away from "John, Paul, George and Ringo".

I did ask her, on Flori's birthday, how things stood with Hans-Joachim, but she was evasive, and did not want to talk about boys or relationships, which was highly unusual for her. So I decided to check out the situation for myself, and I wrote to Claudia suggesting that the next time Silke drove up for a meeting in Hamburg with the boutique there, that I come along. We could even stay over and make a weekend of it, as it was Easter Break and I had the week off school. Easter was late that year, at the end of April, so at least the weather would be nice. 

Claudia wrote back, delighted, and asked if her brother would be coming, or if it was just a girls' weekend. I consulted Flori, but he and Ralf were preparing to start recording their third album at the start of May, so we left him at home. To be honest, I was actually slightly relieved at that, as it was easier to talk to Claudia about boy stuff without Flori around. So Silke and I packed the car, and drove up the weekend of Palm Sunday, when the German countryside was just bursting into bud, the trees almost glowing with the pale green of spring.

I had to admit, over the past three years, I had grown a deep and abiding love for the natural beauty of my adopted home, its mountains, its rivers, its deep, deep forests. But Silke roared along the Autobahn at hundreds of kilometres an hour, trying to get to Hamburg before nightfall, too fast to see much. I kept begging her to slow down so I could admire the spectacular views rolling by our windows, but she seemed distracted, in an odd mood. But then again, odd, distracted moods seemed to be Silke's default mood, lately.

>>it'll be nice to spend some time together, outside work, away from the office<< I tried to coax her by way of distraction.

But Silke's brows were furrowed as she stared straight ahead, at the grey ribbon of road ahead of us. >>I don't have a life outside work, away from the office.<<

>>Sure you do. You have...<< My voice drifted off, as I realised I had been about to say Johannes, but then again, I wondered if that relationship was really a comfort to her, or if that, too, were part of work. Wolfgang? Could I say Wolfgang? Was I even supposed to _know_ about Wolfgang, though I had stopped smelling the distinctive tang of his brand of cigarettes in recent weeks. But my silence seemed its own reply, to Silke.

>>Precisely<< she said.

>>What about Johannes?<< I asked delicately. >>Didn't he and his mother decide the wedding should be this summer? Isn't that something to look forward to?<<

The furrow in her brow only deepened. >>Well, his mother is certainly looking forward to it.<<

I took a deep breath. >>You know, you don't have to get married if you don't want to.<<

>>What, leave all of my friends hanging at the altar, like you did?<< She looked over and flashed her teeth in a tight smile to show she was joking, but her eyes did not lighten at all.

>>I'm comfortable with our decision<< I shrugged. >>Are you sure that you are, though?<<

Silke turned back to the road and changed the subject, asking me to check on the map which exit we needed to take when we reached the city.

When we got to Hamburg, Claudia put on a great show of welcome, and cooked us dinner, and plied us with wine, which was exactly what we needed after the long drive. Her house - and it was a big, family home, not the small cottage we had been lead to believe - was beautifully put together, very stylish, but also very comfortable, in clean, bright modern colours. She had done her best to restore many of the original 1920s Art Deco features, highlighting them with her witty neon accents. It looked gorgeous. Claudia definitely had an eye for beautiful things, and I admired her taste before collapsing into bed.

The next morning, at breakfast, I was slightly more awake, so I became rather more aware that something was wrong, though, as with Silke, I could not put my finger on what. The pair of them were both so forcibly cheery that it was almost exhausting to be around. Claudia was trying her best to be bright and chipper, and to be a good host to Silke and I, pressing us to eat, drink and be merry, and offering to show us the sights and excitements of Hamburg. But her bright smile kept slipping, and every time I looked at her unaware, her chipper expression had been replaced by a look of intense worry.

So when Silke slipped out to go to the boutique, I cornered Claudia over a cup of coffee. >>What is it, Claudia<< I pushed, trying to make my voice sound comforting. >>Something's wrong, but you keep trying your hardest to pretend that it isn't. I can't bear to go on with this forced jollity for a whole weekend. For gods sake, tell me what's the matter?<<

Claudia frowned, and looked about, like she was afraid of being overheard, but the two of us were alone. >>You promise you will not tell my brother.<<

>>I promise I will not.<<

>> _Or_ my father. <<

>>I barely talk to your father! But you have my word. What is it? Something is wrong, yes?<<

>>It's Achim<< she finally confessed, and at that moment, it struck me what was wrong with the house. I had spent many nights on the phone, talking to Flori while he was staying here, and he had described it so vividly I felt like I already knew it, and could find the bathroom and the kitchen without being shown. But Flori had said that the house was full of Achim's gear, full of musical equipment and bits of keyboards and guitars and boxes of effects and sound processors everywhere. There was not a speck of musical equipment to be seen.

>>Where is Achim, anyway?<< I said, foolishly. >>I did hope that we might get the chance to at least see him. Didn't you say he stayed here, at the weekends, when he waned a hot bath<<

>>Jan, he has moved out. Permanently. This time, he says he is not coming back from Forst.<<

>>Permanently?<< I sputtered. >>I thought they only went there to record.<<

But Claudia nodded sharply. >>Permanently<< she insisted. >>When he started going down there, I thought it was just a passing fancy. You know, they met a man at a music festival, who invited them to come and stay. And Achim, he packed up all his musical gear, saying they were going for a month or two, to start work on recording an album. But Jan, it's been over a year now. This is getting silly. The first winter, you know, it was so cold and the conditions were so bad that he was back at my house every chance he got. But now they've got the hall weatherproofed, he has resolved to stay. He says he is not coming back to Hamburg.<<

>>So why don't you go down and stay with him?<< I suggested.

>>Jan, you don't understand. They're basically camping. It's like the Middle Ages, it's so primitive. Oh my god, Jan, it is the most appalling place, huge and rambling and half falling down. There's no central heating, no running water, and barely any electricity. They only got it wired up to the mains for the studio; they're totally lazy about putting wiring in the rest of the house. Because, honestly, putting electricity in much of that house would be a fire hazard! The whole thing, it was left to slowly rot for a couple of decades, then it was used as a barn between the wars, and it was abandoned until this fellow took it over, in the 60s. It stinks! Of animals, and decay. It's not a fit home for humans.<<

I cast my mind back, thinking of the tiny village Ralf and I had driven through on the way to the campsight. I remembered a river, and huge, half-timbered building like a manor-house, only glimpsed through the trees. A hippie couple, walking a goat, had emerged from it, and given us directions, but there was a lot about that weekend that I tried not to remember. >>I don't know, Claudia. I mean, you want to be an architect, maybe you should treat this as your first project. Turning this barnyard into a habitable home.<<

Claudia made a horrified face. >>But the village... there's absolutely nothing there. No shops, no tavern, no restaurant, just this bunch of hippies living like animals in this smelly, musty, rotting old barn of a building. He wants me to leave Hamburg, with its culture, and the University, and the arts scene and everything, and run off and live in this hippie shit-hole in the Sticks? Do you honestly expect me to go down there and cook stews in pots over an open fire like a peasant-woman, instead of enjoying reservations at fine restaurants? Be reasonable! Jan, no. It's intolerable. I won't live there. I can't live there. He has got to grow out of this hippie nonsense, see sense and come back to civilisation.<< She could be unbelievably stubborn when she put her mind to something; stubbornness was a defiinite Schneider-Esleben family trati.

I was about to open my mouth and tell her that I was sure he would come back, when the front door banged, and Silke swept up the stairs into the room, carrying a large cardboard box. More returns. Silke was still very odd about returns, she never stopped seeing them as a personal affront. But she was pretending for Claudia's sake to be chipper, announcing far too brightly. >>It's a beautiful spring day out there, you know. We should go for a drive, out in the country...<<

But Claudia said the one thing she shouldn't have. >>What's in the box?<<

Silke's brow rumpled again. >>Clothes that have not sold. Unloved extras, left on the shelf like old spinsters.<<

>>Oh, don't talk so depressingly<< Claudia said, digging through the box like a magpie, distracted by shiny things. >>Oh, these are beautiful... I love the colours. Ooh, look there's one in my size, too...<<

>>Then you must have it<< said Silke.

>>Let me get my purse, I"ll pay you...<< Claudia offered, but Silke shook her head.

>>Don't bother, just have it<< she insisted. >>At least I know you will wear the garment.<<

I looked at Silke carefully, wondering what was up with her. Silke, like any good German, never gave anything away if she thought she could get money for it.

>>Thank you<< said Claudia, extracting the dress, still in a plastic wrapper, from the box, and holding it up. The colour did, indeed, suit her dark auburn hair and her extraordinary pale blue eyes. >>It's absolutely gorgeous.<<

>>Well, wear it for your boyfriend, and see if he doesn't propose<< Silke shrugged, and I know she meant nothing but it, she was just being friendly and breezy, but Claudia's face absolutely crumpled, and for a moment, she looked like she was going to cry. I didn't think I'd ever even seen Claudia cry, not even when she left her fiancé.

Silke realised immediately that she had said something awful, and threw herself down on the sofa beside Claudia. >>Oh my god, what is that face, what have I said. Tell me - oh, god. Is it boy trouble?<< Claudia kind of threw me a panicked look, as if begging me not to say anything, but the longer neither of us spoke, the more it kind of gave the game away. >>Oh come on, you want to talk boy trouble? My life has been nothing but boy trouble for the past three years. Just tell me, because nothing can possibly be as bad as bloody Helmut, not to mention Emil and Wolfgang and, oh my god, Johannes and his stone-crazy mother.<<

I looked down at the floor so as not to give anything away, but Claudia faintly murmured her assent that yes, she was experiencing boy trouble.

>>Where is Achim, anyway?<< Silke demanded. >>I thought he was supposed to be staying with you.<<

>>He's gone to Forst<< explained Claudia, for the second time in a row.

>>Forst? That bloody stinking hippie commune where Klaus and Emil dragged us all up the mountain? What the blazes is he doing _there_? <<

>>They're making a record. Supposedly.<< said Claudia.

>>Making a record? In a bloody forest? This really is taking experimental music just a bit too far.<<

>>No<< I explained patiently. >>Not up in the forest, where we were. In that mouldering pile of a schoolhouse down by the river.<<

>>Oh, how romantic<< said Silke, and I could not entirely tell if she was being sarcastic or not.

>>Not romantic<< I laughed. >>Bloody cold, and I imagine they'll run out of food soon enough.<<

>>Apparently, they even grow all their own food<< Claudia said, with the same sort of horrified look as if she'd said they eat all their own children. >>Self sufficiency, they call it.<<

>>How quaint<< said Silke. >>Sounds absolutely medieval. I'm sure they'll all poison themselves in no time flat when their wheat gets infected with ergot or whatever. No, this won't do. Come on, Claudia, I've got a car. Let's drive down there, and root him out, and put him in the car and bring him back to civilisation. I am sure he will see sense if the three of us put our minds to it.<<

But Claudia sort of rolled herself into a little ball, still looking absolutely horrified at the prospect of ergot poisoning or whatever other terrors lurked in the countryside. That Schneider-Esleben stubbornness, I lived with it every day, but Claudia really took it to another level. >>I am not going. I am not setting foot in that place again, with the pigshit and the mud. It's disgusting. All the women wandering around with lank, greasy hair, and headscarves, and these sort of colourless grey peasant dresses. It's so depressing. I don't know how he can stand it down there. I told him I would not go!<<

>>Well, we'll go<< volunteered Silke. >>Won't we, Jan?<<

>>I am not keen on Forst, or on camping<< I hedged.

>>Well, we don't have to stay in the bloody commune. I'm sure we can find a nice hotel nearby.<<

>>I am really not keen on hotels near Forst<< I said emphatically, feeling bile rising in the back of my throat.

>>Well, fine, then. You two stay here, have a big Schneider-Esleben pity-party or whatever you want to do with your sunny afternoon, and I'll drive down to Forst and fetch Achim home. I'll be back by teatime, honestly.<<


	50. Forst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Forst, so much to answer for.
> 
> After an Easter weekend of upsets and changes, Claudia has lost her lover to a friend, Jan has lost her principal designer to the hippie lifestyle, and Klaus may have lost his guitarist to Moebie and Achim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder yet again, that this is fiction. Although the events of this story are heavily based on real people and real events, this is not how it happened.

I have cursed myself a hundred times for not going with Silke. I should have just bundled Claudia into the car, and we should all have gone down together. But Claudia just looked at me so obstinately, and it was quite obvious from her expression that she hated Forst and she hated the countryside, and she did not want to leave Hamburg. So we told Silke to just drive down and fetch Achim, and we'd make dinner reservations for the four of us at the best restaurant in Hamburg.

Silke did not come back by tea-time. She was not even back by dinner time, so Claudia and I braved the maitre d' at the fancy restaurant and downgraded our dinner plans to a table for two. We talked about inconsequential things, I think I complained about how Flori hadn't wanted to tour the UK but had offered to meet my father after I'd gone away for a week. Our relationship problems, perversely, cheered her a bit, and she chatted about the upcoming architectural exam and how nervous she was about doing well, considering how badly Ralf had failed.

By the next morning, when there was still no Silke, we started to worry a little. >>Is there a phone there, can we call and check if she got there alright?<< I asked.

Claudia shook her head. >>Achim has to catch a ride into Bevern and use a phone booth when he wants to make a phone call. When I say it is remote, I mean it is the back of fucking beyond.<< Both of us stared out the window at the empty parking spot outside where Silke's car should have been. >>What if something has happened, what if there has been an accident?<<

>>If it were your brother, that would be a possibility, but Silke's a very good driver<< I assured her.

>>Maybe she got a flat tyre.<<

I frowned, not wanting to think of flat tyres and the road to Forst. >>Look, let's give it until lunchtime, then you can call the local constabulary and see if anyone has reported any road traffic accidents nearby.<<

Still, Silke did not return. Claudia rang the police in Holzminden, but there had been no accidents reported anywhere near the vicinity. By Sunday evening, I was starting to worry about getting home again, so I rang Myrthe at the Atelier. >>You haven't heard from Silke, have you?<< I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

>>I thought she was in Hamburg with you and Claudia<< Myrthe replied.

>>She went on a drive down to Forst, to fetch Achim and bring him back for our visit, but she never came back<< I explained.

>>Achim? Why didn't Claudia go and fetch Achim from Forst? He's her boyfriend<< asked Myrthe.

>>Ach, you know how it is<< I sighed, pulling the phone cord into the little alcove in the hall, so we could talk without being overheard. >>Claudia and Achim have been having some trouble. Claudia is stubborn as hell so, you know, we sent Silke as a little third-party negotiation.<<

>>No<< said Myrthe, her voice suddenly horrified. >>Oh my god, no. Tell me you did not send _Silke_ to negotiate between a couple that is having trouble... Jan, no... Do you _want_ them to split up? <<

>>What do you mean?<< I asked, but a little thought started to niggle in the back of my head. >>No, don't be ridiculous. Silke and Claudia are friends, they've known each other since school.<<

>>No<< persisted Myrthe, sounding slightly panicked. >>It was Anni who went to school with Claudia and Tina, not Silke. Silke's only known her as long as you and I have. Oh god... this is... no...<<

>>Silke wouldn't do that<< I defended, though that uneasy feeling in my gut would not shift. >>I mean, I know she has a very loose morality when it comes to men, but... she wouldn't. You're being uncharitable.<<

>>You know, there is a reason, when you moved out of this apartment, that I would not let Silke move in. I did not trust her around Michael.<<

>>Michael?<< I laughed. >>Michael is so shy, he wouldn't go with a girl, even if she was naked and sitting on top of him. In fact, I think I have been in that very situation, accidentally, with Michael, while relieving myself in the woods, and he didn't so much as look at me. You have nothing to fear from Michael.<<

>>Jan, you always think the best of people, and that is one of the things I love about you. But I hope to god that you're right and I'm wrong. Anyway, you stay with Claudia while I try to ring around. I think Michael might know how to get hold of Moebie, they have become good friends.<<

I hung up the phone with a sinking feeling, then rang Flori to tell him that I was going to stay on with his sister for a few more days. Despite his initial grumbling about how uncomfortable the bed was without me, it turned out he didn't really mind; he and Ralf were hard at work trying to sort out which of their new songs to record.

Claudia tried to put on a brave front, and despatched a letter to Forst, telling Achim that Silke had gone down to look for them, so to keep an eye out for her, and have her phone the house if he saw her. But the longer we went without hearing from any of them, the more worried I became.

>>Maybe we should just drive down there<< I kept suggesting. >>Can't you borrow your father's car?<<

>>I told you; I am not going down there<< Claudia insisted, though I was not sure if it was denial, fear, or pride that tightened her voice.

After another two days, we got a phone call from Michael. >>She's definitely there. I wrote a letter to Moebie, and he walked into Bevern to call me and tell me that she's safe, she's been staying at the house. Crisis over, it seems.<< he announced chirpily.

>>Let me speak to Myrthe<< I told him, and got his girlfriend on the phone. >>Crisis not over, huh<< I sighed.

>>I told you so...<< hissed Myrthe.

>>Maybe she's sleeping with Moebie. After all, she seems to like short men<< I suggested, remembering her flings with the diminutive Wolfgang.

>>Moebie did not mention it to Michael, and trust me, Moebie would have been full of that news if he'd bedded Silke. He likes the girls, Moebie does<< gossiped Myrthe.

And yet, still, Claudia refused to drive down, her refusal reaching a sort of crisis pitch. I rang Flori and asked him what to do, suggesting that maybe he come up and try to talk sense into his sister, or Achim, or someone. But Flori was very reluctant to get involved with anything involving Achim, whom he had never particularly liked, and he claimed that his and Ralf's sessions had reached a crucial juncture, from which he could not be excused. But then Michael rang back, saying that Flori had just told him Ralf was going home to his parents' house in Krefeld for Easter, and Moebie had extended an open invitation to come up and visit their studio, so how about he and Myrthe and Flori drive up to Hamburg, pick up me and Claudia, and all of us go to Forst over Easter to see what was what. It was an absurd plan, and it took so long to organise that by that time, Silke had been missing a week.

Claudia, quite predictably, still refused to go to Forst on principle, even when Michael's car pulled up and her brother spilled out, unfolding his long legs from the cramped back seat. At first, Flori offered to stay with her, while Michael and Myrthe and I drove down. But then, just as we were about to head off, she said she didn't want her brother, she wanted a woman, someone she could really talk to. She looked at me, but after a week of looking after her, I was, frankly, finding her quite hard work. I said if she didn't want Flori, then I did, and Myrthe, who didn't know Claudia very well at all, ended up staying.

It would have been an awkward ride, even without that particular mix of people, but I spent the whole journey down feeling like absolute shit for abandoning Claudia. I had thought it would reawaken awful memories, driving down that B-road to Forst, but after three years, it looked completely unfamiliar. Michael missed the turn-off the first time, and we had to drive back past it, with Florian scouring the landscape for familiar landmarks.

And finally, we arrived, though the hulking mass of the schoolhouse looked completely different than I had remembered it. In the bright spring sunshine, it looked like a fairytale castle, and Michael grinned as he looked up at it, pulling into the courtyard to park.

>>It's absolutely beautiful here<< he sighed, looking up at the patched and faded brickwork, all running in different directions where the building had been expanded over the years.

Flori climbed out of the car, but immediately made a face. He was completely overdressed for the occasion in his silk suit and his hand-made leather shoes, having been expecting to stay in Hamburg with his sister, and when he looked down to what he was standing in, he was most displeased. >>Claudia is right. This is ever so slightly...<< He produced a tissue from his pocket and gingerly wiped something awful from his shoes. >>Disgusting is the right word, yes.<<

I tried to keep an open mind, as I wanted to be charmed by the setting, and the wide river flowing slowly behind the house was quite lovely. Walking to the door, I knocked, and a hippie woman, clutching a baby to her breast, appeared and smiled at us benevolently. >>Blessed be<< she greeted us.

>>Um, hello<< I replied, unsure of the proper response. >>We're friends of Silke Weber. Moebie said she'd been staying here. Have you seen her?<<

>>She's in the garden<< replied the hippie, switching the nursing baby to her other breast. >>Round the side of the house - that way.<<

>>Garden<< I repeated to my companions, and set off, leading the way as the two boys dawdled behind, Flori trying to pick his way carefully through the mounds of what I hoped was just mud, and not actual pigshit, while Michael, who had sensibly worn boots, stared up at the fairytale building, his mouth open in delight, pausing to wave back at a small child peering down at him from a window.

Sheltered in the lee of the house, with the sun baking on the walls, was a large, half-cloistered kitchen garden. And there, crouching in the mud and laughing gleefully as she slung snails at her companion, was a bedraggled looking creature with a bright smile that might actually have been the stylish and elegant Silke in a previous lifetime. Silke. In wellington boots and dungarees. Her perfectly cut curls tucked away in a headscarf. Standing knee-deep in compost and cow manure. Gardening.

>>Be sure to dig it in well<< called her companion, whose eyes were obscured by a large straw hat as he trundled over a wheelbarrow, but whose general thinness and slightly stooped posture suggested a farmer rather than the arty intellectual I'd known as Hans-Joachim Roedelius. >>We'll plant beans over the top, which will break it down nicely, but you need to break up the bigger clumps and mix them with the soil, for the best results.<<

The farmwife giggled and stood up to vigourously attack the clods of earth, alternately whacking them and spearing them with a large garden fork to break them up. >>It's great for getting out your frustrations<< laughed the girl, and the voice, despite the odd clothes, was very obviously Silke's.

>>As if you have any frustrations left, my love<< chortled the farmer, with Achim's saucy grin.

>>Not those kind of frustrations<< replied Silke, manhandling the garden fork expertly, stabbing at the sods of turf. >>Exclusive contracts!<< she shouted, and smashed up a clod. >>Sale or return<< she snorted, and bashed another. >>Autumn! Winter! Collections!<< she concluded, forking over three forkfuls in a row. >>Frittering my entire life away designing expensive consumer-products for the bourgeoisie!<<

>>The entire Capitalist consumerist consumption model of art<< rejoined Achim, upending the wheelbarrow and swamping her handiwork under a shower of compost and manure.

>>A never-ending shower of shit<< agreed Silke, wiping her face with the back of a grimy hand. >>But at least this shit helps the beans grow.<<

>>Silke?<< I ventured, still astonished at her transformation. It had only been a week since I'd last seen her, but she hardly seemed the same person, not least because of the open, honest grin on her face.

>>Jan?<< She looked up, surprised, then tried to dust off her hands on her dungarees. >>Flori! Michael! What are you doing here? Have you come to help? We could always use another pair of hands on the weeding...<<

>>No. We came to look for you.<< I stuttered. Having been through so many scenarios in my head over the past week, of car-crashes, and accidents, and flood-swollen rivers blocking her path home, this was the last thing I had expected.

>>Did you not get my message?<< she asked jauntily.

>>What message?<<

>>I left a message on that stupid answering machine of yours... Oh, I don't know. A couple of days ago? After Moebie told me you lot were looking for me. I called and said that, well... since I had accrued 2 years' worth of holiday time that I had never ever taken, well, I was taking all eight weeks, now. Effective immediately.<<

>>Holiday<< I stuttered. >>Does that mean you are coming back?<<

>>We'll see<< said Silke, grinning even wider as Achim walked over towards her and draped his long arm around her shoulders.

>>I hope not<< said Achim hopefully, bending down to kiss her gently on the side of her cheek. I wanted to throw something. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to pick up the pitchfork that Silke was holding and run it straight through him, for all the pain and anxiety that he had caused Claudia over the past week, and here he was, laughing and cuddling Silke and playing at being farmers.

>>You two?<< I managed to gasp, though really I was almost too angry to speak.

>>It just... happened?<< said Silke, semi-apologetically, but then she looked up at Achim, and smiled, standing on her tip-toes to deposit a kiss on the tip of his nose.

>>And what are you going to tell Claudia?<< I hissed, feeling my stomach tighten.

At that, the guilty couple at least had the decency to stop grinning, and exchange slightly disconcerted looks. >>OK<< conceded Silke. >>I suppose we need to talk.<<

But as they stepped forward, climbing out of the mudpatch, Moebie emerged from the side of the barn. >>Michael! Florian! Have you come for a jam session? You should see what we've done with the studio.<<

>>No<< said Flori, very icily, still staring daggers at Achim.

Michael looked back and forth between us, then beat a swift retreat back towards Moebie. >>I'll come and look at your studio, Moebie. I'd love to have a little jam session, but I think these guys have rather a lot to talk about.<<

>>Shall we go inside to talk?<< I suggested.

Silke shrugged. >>I'd rather stay outside, if it's all the same to you. It's a beautiful day, and I want to make the most of it.<<

>>Let's go down to the river<< Achim suggested. The pair of them turned to each other, and Silke wiped a smudge of earth from his face with the edge of her handkerchief. They put their tools aside and walked down the long, grassy bank towards the river, where a picnic table stood overlooking the water.

Florian and I followed, somewhat more slowly, as neither of us had worn appropriate footgear for a little jaunt in the country, but at least I was able to bend down and take my shoes off, deciding it was better to walk in my bare feet. We sat, Silke and Achim snuggling together like newlyweds on one side, and Flori and I on the other. On another day, in another situation, I would have similarly snuggled up to him to enjoy the fair weather and the pretty view, but I was too angry with Silke to want to be touched by anyone.

What a fine mess she had got us all into! Even with her unkempt hair and her dirty face, I looked at her and saw how beautiful she was, that face that had made every man from Emil to Helmut to even Johannes just sit up and do whatever she asked. With her angelic face, her perfectly pouted lips, and her bloom-of-German-womanhood figure, she could have just snapped her fingers and had any man in West Germany, maybe any man in Europe! So why, out of all the men she could have chosen to have, did she have to decide that she wanted the one that her friend Claudia was besotted with?

>>How can you do this to Claudia?<< I finally managed to sputter.

Silke pursed her lips defiantly, then shrugged. >>It's nothing to do with her. We have fallen in love, that's all.<<

>>In love?<< I stuttered. This was worse than I had thought. >>What are you planning on telling her, exactly?<<

>>I don't see why I should have to tell her anything<< Silke shrugged. >>She was the one who wouldn't come. She _hates_ Forst. Which means she doesn't really understand Achim, if she doesn't get what this place means to him. I don't even know that she loves him, really. I think she's just obsessed with the idea of him. <<

>>You... you...<< I didn't quite know what to say, turning to Flori for backup, but he remained silent, staring off into the bright air above the river. >>How can you say you're in love? You've known each other a week?<<

Silke sighed deeply and extracted a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her dungarees. So that was one habit that it seemed had not been left behind in her new pastoral lifestyle. She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, then sent a plume of cigarette smoke back over her shoulder. >>How long had you known Florian before you knew you were in love with him?<< she asked.

I pulled back sharply, as if I had been burned. >>That's completely different. It took us _months_ to get together. <<

>>Is it?<< Silke's eyes flashed, and this time she exhaled the plume of smoke down towards the table. I just glared at her, waving my hand in front of my face to dispel the smoke. >>Oh, don't you _presume_ to judge me, Jan DeLay. You went straight from Ralf's bed to Florian's, and you wouldn't let anyone say a word to you over that. Not even Emil, who had to bear the brunt of Ralf's heartbreak, and had to clean up your little mess. So don't you dare judge me. <<

Flori shifted uncomfortably on the bench beside me. He cleared his throat in that distinctive manner of his, then tried to shift into a more pragmatic mode. >>You can't intend to live here, though.<<

>>Why not?<< said Achim, reaching over to take Silke's cigarette from her, finishing the last drag before stubbing it out carefully on the sole of his shoe and placing the filter on the edge of the table, so careful not to litter so much as a cigarette butt on his bucolic fantasy.

>>Well, look at it<< said Flori, clearly horrified as he cast his gaze about us. >>There's barely electricity. There's no phone. And no transport! There's no train station, not even an autobahn. It's fine for a little holiday, sure. But how on earth can you propose to live in such a place?<<

Achim narrowed his eyes as he looked about him, taking in the river, with the rolling hills beyond it, the mountains in the distance, the kitchen garden, the barn, the rambling half-timbered, half-brick building like a fairy-tale castle. >>Don't you see? We want to live here _because_ there are none of those things to distract us. We are free to build a new Germany removed from power stations and autobahns and express trains and computers controlling every aspect of our lives. <<

Flori's lip curled up in a snarl as if he had been personally insulted, which, I suppose in a way, he had. >>I _like_ Power Stations << he sneered right back. >>I like autobahns and express trains and computers. I _like_ the modern world. You don't want to build a new Germany, you want to retreat to the past. <<

>>And what's wrong with the past?<< shrugged Achim. >>I like the past a lot better than a present that still stinks of Nazis and death-camps. You don't remember the War, Florian, you're too young. But I do. I have seen what modernity can do.<<

>>So have I, and I tell you what<< said Flori, dropping his voice as his knuckles whitened, holding on to the edge of the table. >>I like modernity. I like science and I like medicine. Because I tell you, _my_ children will be born in a hospital, and will be seen by doctors and they will have vaccinations and medicines, so that they will not die of cholera or typhus or polio before their second birthdays. << I had never seen Flori so animated, and I felt proud of him, proud that this was the man that was going to father my children.

But Silke shuddered. >>My children will be born at home, with a midwife, in front of the fire. Like my mother was, and my grandmother before her, and they will wear the same christening robe that we all wore and sleep in the same cradle. I have had enough of modernity. I have had enough of capitalism and the next season's next must-have. I have been so unhappy, Jan, for the past year, and you haven't even noticed. You just go on consuming, consuming, consuming. The next trendy album. The next trendy art show. The next trendy designer dresses. The next trendy consumer-products that all the smiling girls in Parisian Vogue say we must have. Where does it end, Jan, where does it end? Don't you think there's more to life than posing for the fucking magazines, posing for consumer-products now and then? I did not even realise that I was too busy to notice how unhappy I was, until I came here, and Hans-Joachim came out of the door, and looked at me, barrelling down the path, and he said _just stop_. <<

Achim smiled at her benignly. >>When I said _just stop_ I meant the car, because you were about to run over the ducklings. That's why I took you by the hand and lead you down to the river, to show you their nest. <<

Silke beamed, as the pair of them looked at one another to share the memory. >>I just looked at you, standing by the river, making sure that no one disturbed the ducks' nest, and I just thought... that's him. That's the man I am going to marry.<<

I opened my mouth to let out a giant sigh, and rolled my eyes skyward because honestly, I had been hearing this for the past year and a half, and I just wanted to warn Silke, just don't even start to build these castles in the sky. Achim is not the marrying kind, and he will never marry you, he will lead you on a merry chase, and never commit, like he did to Claudia for how many years...

But Achim's eyes misted over as he looked down at Silke, the hair she always used to iron into perfect waves escaping from her handkerchief into a great curly halo around her head. Even in this shithole, she looked like a film star; she looked like that Hanna Schygulla from all those Fassbinder films. >>I'd like that<< Achim said softly. >>I'd like that a lot.<<

Flori and I just turned to each other and exchanged despairing looks. There was clearly no reasoning with them. We had both seen that look before, on each other's faces, the morning that I escaped from Ralf's flat.

I had come down to Forst so convinced that I was going to put everything to rights, that I was going to make Silke see sense. And I had been so angry, wanting to punish Silke, make her have to march back to Hamburg and suffer through the agony of telling Claudia what she had done. But I saw now, there was no point.

Scratching the back of his head thoughtfully, Flori turned to me. >>What are we going to tell my sister? She wanted us to bring Achim back to Hamburg and back to her.<<

Silke snorted dismissively. >>It is not her decision.<<

Flori turned and fixed her with a gaze that would frighten fire. >> _Shut up._ << he said, very firmly, then he stood up and turned to me, extending his hand to help me to my feet. We walked away without another word, and I knew without saying anything, that my friendship with Silke was over. Silke may have been a business associate, but Claudia was family.

We walked back to the house, and crept cautiously inside, looking for Michael. He and Moebie were having a wonderful time with guitars and a tape loop, making a ferocious racket of the sort that would have brought the neighbours round in the Altstadt, but the walls of the old house were so thick that we hadn't heard a thing from outside. They were so absorbed in their music that they didn't even see us come in, and Flori had to attract Moebie's attention by waving in his face.

>>Do you want to join us, Florian?<< asked Moebie, as the tape loop echoed around him. >>Oh, I suppose there isn't really the space at the moment, but we're going to knock this wall through and make a giant rehearsal space for just these sorts of jam sessions.<<

Michael turned to his friend, astonished. >>Won't the landlord object if you start knocking walls through?<<

>>Landlord?<< laughed Moebie. >>You're looking at him. We have an agreement with the government. It's ours to do what we like, so long as we don't take out any structural walls.<<

>>You are kidding<< gushed Michael, rushing back and forth between the two rooms to see how the space could be opened up, but Flori started hemming and hawing.

>>I am very sorry, but we do have to get back to Hamburg<< he announced awkwardly.

>>Oh, just another hour...<< begged Michael. >>Let us just record this one track we've been working on.<< Michael turned and looked at Moebie, and I realised that I had seen that expression before, too. It was that look of love, of musical affinity, that he had given Klaus Dinger all those years ago, at the campsite, when he had decided to leave Spirits of Sound to throw his lot in with Klaus and Florian. And I thought to myself, Claudia is not the only person to have lost their partner through stubbornness today - Klaus had better watch out, too.


	51. Wolfgang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weber und Schneider come up with a bold new plan to try to make up for the loss of their Weber.
> 
> And Power Station, now that they have finished their third album, need to find a drummer to tour it. But the problem is, the only available drummer left in Düsseldorf is one Wolgang Flür.

Leaving Michael and Moebie to their instrumental experiments, Flori and I relocated to the room next door to avoid getting in their way. I sat at a window seat, looking down on the lazy riverbanks, a bucolic scene that seemed as old as time, as Flori walked back and forth, trying hard not to hit his head on a low post. I wished he would just come and sit with me, hold my hand as we looked at the view, so that we might get some small pleasure out of the weekend. But he was too distracted, glancing at his watch every five minutes and sighing in that exasperated way that indicated he was getting annoyed with being bored. I wished it could have been a nicer time, with that sunny afternoon and the lively but harmonious music that Michael and Moebie were making filtering through the walls from next door. But Forst would always be an unhappy place, to me.

Finally, they finished the song, and the music stopped. Flori disappeared back through the door to find Michael, as I collected my things and my thoughts.

>>Come back any time<< offered Moebie with a wide grin, as Michael packed the borrowed guitar away. >>Come back and stay for a bit of a jam session, or... you know, just come back and stay. It's not like we don't have the room.<< Spreading his arms wide, he gestured towards the upper stories of the enormous building. >>Anyone who can refurbish or reclaim a room is welcome to the space.<<

I could see in Michael's eyes that he was genuinely torn, and if it was up to him, he would have pulled a Silke and stayed for another week, another month. But then he remembered his girlfriend, waiting back in Hamburg with a semi-hysterical Claudia, and made his way back down to the car.

Florian and I both remained quite silent and downcast during the drive back to Hamburg, which, fortunately, due to that strange trick of distance or familiarity, always seemed shorter returning than driving out. But Michael was oddly elated, even uncharacteristically chatty, as if excited by the strange music he had been making with Moebie. I could tell that Flori really wanted to be left alone to stew in his pique over the argument with Achim, but Michael insisted on talking, bombarding my poor sulking lover with his enthusiasm, until I found myself winding my fingers surreptitiously into the back of Flori's hair and massaging his scalp gently to try to relax him.

>>Wasn't that music splendid?<< Michael would try to toss across as a conversational gambit. >>I don't think I have had such an immediate and intense musical affinity since... well, since the first time I played with Ralf.<<

>>Hmmm is that so<< said Flori grumpily, as if knowing he should acknowledge the compliment to his musical partner, though he clearly had no interest in talking.

>>And I liked Moebie's guitar - didn't you, Florian? You play a Fender guitar, don't you? I had never recorded with one before, I have always played Gibsons, but my Gibson is so heavy, and that Fender is really quite light, almost like a toy, though it is fun to play, so easy, so joyful, hmmm, what do you think?<<

>>They are all the same to me<< mumbled Flori in an irritated monotone, sinking his chin further into his neck like a recalcitrant turtle.

>>Do you really think so?<< Michael pushed, and then his face lit up in an impish grin. >>Well, if you don't like that Fender of yours, I will happily take it off your hands, just name the price.<<

>>Fine, take it<< muttered Florian, and I wasn't sure if he really meant it, or he just wanted an end to the conversation, but Michael smiled in triumph, and started to offer various sums in DM or even other instruments in trade.

At this, Flori started to perk up a little, as Michael remembered that Flori had mentioned before that he wanted a Hawaiian guitar. And it turned out, Michael had a friend who was looking to sell or trade a Hawaiian guitar, so they started to work out some complex arrangement. Michael would swap his bass (which they first had to retrieve from Mintropstrasse, where Ralf had been playing it) for the Hawaiian guitar, and then exchange the Hawaiian guitar for the leopard print Fender.

The deal was eventually settled by the time we got back to Hamburg, just about nightfall. The lights were on, and music was playing in Claudia's house, so it didn't seem like she and Myrthe had had too bad of an afternoon. When I walked in, they seemed to be having a good time, sitting on the sofas with big colour art books sprawled all over the floor between them. But as soon as Claudia looked up, and saw the three of us, just standing there, by ourselves, her face fell.

I walked over, and sat down beside her, thinking of all the things I'd prepared to say in the car. Although I'd sworn blind when I'd left Forst that there was no way I was going to cover for Silke, or lie for her, or even clean up her dirty little messes for her, when I was confronted with Claudia's desperate and yet hopeful eyes, my entire face just crumpled. Claudia didn't say a word, and neither did I. She just looked at me, and then she burst into tears.

>>He's not coming back, is he?<< she said.

>>I'm so sorry<< was all I could think to say. Claudia had always been so strong, so defiant, so spiky and intellectual, I didn't entirely know what to do, but instinct took over. I put my arms around her, and pulled her towards me, stroking her hair and trying to soothe her, though she was absolutely inconsolable. At first, she just sat, like a stiff board in my arms, refusing to be comforted.

But then Flori turned to Michael and Myrthe, both standing so helplessly on the rug. >>You know what<< he said diplomatically. >>You two can stay overnight, but in the morning, you should probably go back to Düsseldorf without us. I think my sister is going to need her family around for a little while.<<

Michael and Myrthe exchanged looks. >>Hey, that's perfectly fine. In fact, I think I'll turn in early, so I can get a good night's rest for an early start<< Michael announced, a little too jauntily, shooting Myrthe a meaningful look.

>>I will show you to the guest room<< Flori offered stiffly.

It wasn't until all of them had left the room that Claudia relaxed, and collapsed into my lap, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and shaking as she sobbed out her grief and her rage. I could do nothing but hold her, stroking her hair and agreeing with her when she cursed their names.

She was in such a state, Flori and I had to take her upstairs and put her to bed like a child. But she clutched at my hand as I turned to go, and begged me not to leave, saying she was afraid to be alone. I cast an apologetic glance at Flori, and stayed, curling up at the opposite end of the bed. We didn't sleep much; she was too upset, though angry more than sad.

For most of the night, we just talked. Or rather, she talked and I listened. She told me things about Flori's and her childhood that he had never shared with me. I had no idea how _alone_ they had been. Paul and Evamaria had travelled, for work at first, and then for pleasure, and had often just left them with the staff. Tina, especially, had suffered from nightmares, every time their parents left, that they would never return. Flori had tried to act like the man of the house, and had gathered them all into the big parental bed, where they played at 'Normal Families'. 

>>Happy families, isn't that the name of the game?<< I tried to correct, unsure of German children's games but Claudia shook her head. 

>>We knew we would never be happy. But we just wanted to be _normal_. <<

>>Your parents are normal, I think<< I said quietly. >>Eccentric, sure, but... well, at least they are still together.<< I lowered my voice, as this was something I still did not like to discuss. >>My parents divorced in 1960. That, honestly, that was not normal.<<

>>I wish my parents had divorced<< spat Claudia suddenly, with uncharacteristic aggression. She was normally the one defending her family - or her father, at least - when Flori railed against him. >>I think, through staying together, even though they hate one another, that they have poisoned us. I think they have prevented us from ever being able to have a natural marriage. None of us know what a good relationship even looks like!<<

I shuddered, pulling away from her slightly, as to be honest, that was a fear I had felt many times myself - or rather it had been until I had met Florian. >>I don't think that's true. I think you can learn. Or rather, with the right person, even if you have been bent out of shape by your family, you can grow together, in the same direction.<<

I heard her breath catch in the dark, tight with an emotion I could not identify. >>Are you only saying that because you and Flori are broken in all the same ways?<< she said with an edge of cattiness that caught me off guard.

But I forgave her that cattiness instantly. After all, had our situations been reversed, I would have been angry and lashing out, so I took a deep breath before saying >>I don't think Flori is broken. Do you?<<

The hostility drained out of her voice as she realised she had been uncharitable to her beloved brother. >>Oh, Jan, you don't remember how angry he was, before he met you.<<

I had to stop and think about that. It was true; there had always been that strange Mr Hyde component of icy fury that had scared me a little in his personality. That first morning, years ago, camping in Forst, was the first time I had seen it. And it was true, I had seen it with much greater regularity that year. The man who had played that rough, explosive music with Klaus Dinger, he had been a very angry young man. But then I stopped and thought about when it was, that the anger had really ebbed away. >>You know, I don't think it's me that's responsible for Flori becoming less angry. I think that finding his own voice - and success - as a musician, has tempered his anger.<<

Claudia laughed. >>You need to give yourself more credit, Little Mouse. You two have been good for one another.<< But the laughter drained away abruptly, as I heard the giggle end in a sob.

An involuntary shudder went through me. >>Oh, Claudia<< I sighed. >>I wish you could see that Achim has _not_ been good for you. The bounce has gone out of you this past year. You have stopped being the fierce, independent sister-in-law I know and love. That man has not been good for you, like Flori has been good for me. You have acted smaller, when you were with him, when a good relationship should make you feel bigger. I think, if you understand that, it will make it hurt a little less. <<

>>I tried, Jan. I really tried<< she whispered, and the desperate edge to her voice scared me a little. >>I did what my mother told us to do. I compromised. I tried to put him first.<<

>>Your mother has some pretty fucked-up ideas about marriage<< I said, a little more sharply than I had intended.

Her voice sounded ragged, like she had started crying again. >>That's what I'm afraid of. And what if I can't escape them?<<

Michael and Myrthe left early the next morning, while Claudia was still dozing off the hangover of her heartbreak and anger. Although Myrthe had not been present at the discussion in Forst, I did not envy her the task of going back to Düsseldorf and trying to sort out the task of running Weber und Schneider without one Weber, as Silke had made it pretty clear that she actually had no intention of coming back, not after eight weeks, not for the upcoming season, and possibly never.

Flori left by train the morning after Easter Monday, saying that he wanted to be back in the studio with Ralf by that evening, and besides he had the arrangements over the guitars to make with Michael. I stayed another week, just trying to look after Claudia, making sure she ate and slept and changed her clothes - and more than anything making sure that she did not borrow anyone's car to go driving down to Forst to chuck both Silke and Hans-Joachim in that peaceful and beautiful river.

Not that I thought there was much danger of that. She hated the place - and if she had ever been able to find the will to go down there, it would have done her a lot more good to do it while she and Achim still had a chance of salvaging their relationship. But no. It was my first ever lesson that loving someone was not actually enough. You had to more than just love someone; you had to be actively willing to enter into their life, and the kind of life that they wanted to build. Ultimately, Achim had loved Forst more than Claudia, and Claudia had loved big cities and modern conveniences more than Achim.

I thought a lot, as I listened to Claudia swear and call Silke and Achim names. I thought about Flori and the kind of life that he wanted to build. I thought about that damned recording studio down on Mintropstrasse, that he guarded as jealously as a mistress. And then, I thought to myself, well, as far as mistresses went, a recording studio was not so bad. If he was willing to drive me down to Telefunken research laboratories in Southern Germany for the sake of some obscure bit of computer kit, well, I would put up with the EMS and the ARP and the other three-letter mechanical girlfriends that he was intent on collecting.

So after about a week, just at the point that Evamaria was threatening to come up and visit, Claudia decided to start eating properly and brushing her hair again and going back to school like a normal young woman whose heart hadn't been so bitterly snapped in two. After all, she had an architectural exam to study for, and this time she wasn't going to let any man get in the way of it ever again. So I got on a train and went back to Düsseldorf.

Flori, when I arrived back at home, looked a little bit shaken, and seemed to be going out of his way to be especially affectionate with me. I didn't mind at all, but it did make me a little suspicious when he took me out to dinner and then followed up this treat with a footrub and a back massage.

>>Are you feeling guilty about something?<< I asked, half joking, but not really. >>Did you rip off poor innocent little Michael over that deal with the stupid guitars?<<

>>No.<< When he looked me straight in the eye, I saw not guilt in his expression, but fear. >>I just don't want you running away with anyone. I couldn't stand it.<<

>>No danger of that<< I assured him and kissed him warmly, but he was still staring at me intensely.

>>I need you<< he insisted, his voice catching slightly. >>I think you know by now that I love you. But I'm not sure you know how much I need you.<<

\----------

That summer of 1973 was particularly hot, and a horrid sort of muggy as the Rhine seemed to boil dry and hang about in an awful, cloying humidity. My friends all seemed to be going through crises. Michael, already besotted with Moebie and Achim and their set-up at Forst, was becoming more and more disenchanted with Klaus' unpredictable behaviour, even after the second NEW! album (named "NEW! 2" - how original) was released to general befuddlement. Their gigs, never regular, became even more sporadic, and Michael heard rumours that Klaus had even done shows without him, playing with his brother and some fellow named Hans and billing it as if it were a NEW! gig. 

Klaus was pushing him, and hard, to go off and tour of the UK, as Klaus had made many friends there, as he was quite happy to be a performing cabbage for John Peel. But whenever they tried to discuss it, Michael kept saying that he didn't want to tour the UK without some extra musicians, and the only extra musicians that would do for him were Achim and Moebie. And Achim and Moebie's ambitions did not lie in the UK; they lay in the lazy sunshine at Forst.

Myrthe, however, stepped into the crisis in Weber und Schneider with aplomb. She and Zaide went through the files of Silke's sketches, looking for something, anything, to use to base the Autumn / Winter collection off. But there was nothing. Silke seemed to have just stopped being interested in clothes or fashion or her job at all, and all of her sketchbooks for the past few months were filled with escapist fantasies, castles and princesses and sentimental mountain scenes of rural life. Well, no wonder she had fallen so in love with Forst, if that was what had been filling her head.

But then Zaide had stepped forward and said, well, since she had been translating Silke's sketches into patterns for the past few years, she had got pretty good at interpreting, and even anticipating her designs, filling in the details herself when Silke had not provided them. Maybe she could have a go at doing some ersatz-Silke, perhaps even throwing in some twists of her own, as 1973 was the year that kaftans gave way to high camp fantasy, thanks to Bowie. And she went off and sat in Silke's dove grey and imperial purple office for a week, and came back with three 'mood boards' of designs.

The first was fairly conservative, very close to the designs that Silke had done the previous season, but with the bells of the trousers and the collars and the lapels widened to keep pace with the trend in American clothes. I really wasn't too keen, but maybe it would tide us over until we found something better? Then the second page was kind of Orientalist fantasy stuff, all swirling colours and bright detailing in the loose, gauzy, flattering hippie styles that Myrthe really liked. Those looked like a lot of fun, and I thought how interesting it would be to try to design computer-generated paisley. But then Zaide produced the third page. Our jaws dropped. It was _wild_. All sorts of moonage daydream shiny metallic stuff like Bowie and Eno, gold leather jumpsuits with zippers in odd places, but mixed with strange, theatrical, expressionist flapper gear, in some kind of Lou Reed meets Cabaret space-orgy.

And all this from Zaide, a young woman from a conservative Muslim family, whose parents didn't even allow her to drink!

>>It's like a glam rock version of Gold-Diggers of 1933<< I gasped, referencing a film that Flori and I had seen recently with Ralf and Isabella.

>>That's what we could call the collection<< laughed Myrthe, her eyes huge as she looked at a glittering dress that looked like it could be made of hundreds of overlapping metal peacock feathers. >>Gold Diggers of 1973.<<

>>Can we _do_ this? << I asked, my eyes wide, casting a glance over at Zaide, but she was grinning. >>I mean, Banu is not going to approve...<<

>>My cousins and I will sew them, even if Mum disapproves<< said Zaide, and I could tell from the flash in her eyes that this was where her heart lay. Even Lotte, who, like Heidi, had fallen under the bewitching spell of 'that beautiful synth-player from Roxy Music' had picked up the "Stardust" moodboard and was touching the clothes with her fingertips, as if imagining what it would be like to wear them.

>>Can you sew with leather and PVC and vinyl, and the fabrics that these will entail? Because I'm not sure I know even where to get them.<<

>>I used to sew handbags<< insisted Zaide. >>I am not fazed by leather work.<<

I grasped for straws, trying to talk think through every possibility. >>Will they even sell these in the Kö Boutique? They've been becoming more and more conservative over the years<< I hedged.

>>We've lost our contract with the Kö Boutique<< Myrthe said, resigned and a little too dispassionately.

>>Johannes? Oh, that bastard...<<

>>Not Johannes, his mother<< explained Myrthe. >>We make Johannes too much _money_ to give us up. We're still good for Paris and London and Munich and Hamburg and Marseilles and Antwerp and and Milan and Rome and everywhere else that Johannes can get us in. To be honest, despite the sob show he put on for his mother, I think Johannes is quite _relieved_ at not having to marry Silke. He has a new boyfriend, an Italian designer with a jealous streak who didn't want to share him with a wife anyway. <<

I wasn't sure how I felt about that, but I was glad that someone got something good out of all the heartbreak. >>Good for Johannes. But can he find us another Düsseldorf retailer?<<

>>Or...<< suggested Myrthe. >>We could cut out the middleman. I have heard from the landlord that the carpet shop downstairs are moving to a bigger location in Friedrichstadt, and he wanted to know if we were at all interested in expanding onto the last remaining floor. It's got a wide shopfront, and good footfall, a young, hip audience, being in the Altstadt. Which is not so great for a carpet shop, but brilliant for us.<<

I stared at her. >>We've just lost our principle designer, and you want to go into retail? Are you mad?<<

>>Well, that way we could take on new designers, from the Kunstakademie, and from the Craft College in Krefeld, too, and see who has an eye, and who sells, on consignment, without taking on the risk ourselves.<<

>>That's a brilliant idea actually<< interjected Zaide. >>And we wouldn't have to worry about those dreaded returns. We could sell our own returns at wholesale to recoup the cost.<<

>>And who is going to run a shop?<< I demanded. >>None of us have that kind of experience!<<

At that, Lotte piped up. >>I worked in my parents' Newsagents all through Gymnasium. I can balance a till, and manage stock. And I'd much rather be on a shop floor, chatting with customers than stuck up here on reception.<<

>>This is madness, you know<< I said, feeling my head spinning.

>>It's not. Johannes thinks it's a brilliant idea. He said if we want any of his designers, he'll let us have them below wholesale, just for the first season, while we get off the ground.<< supplied Myrthe.

I rounded on Myrthe. >>You discussed this with Johannes before you brought it up with me?<<

>>Of course I did! He's had experience managing a shop, and you haven't. I wanted to run it by him, to see if he even thought it was feasible, before I went suggesting it to you, knowing how negative you are, and how you like to shoot down every suggestion I make.<< Myrthe protested.

>>I'm not negative. I don't shoot down suggestions<< I sulked. This was just as bad as the time Myrthe called me _unfriendly_.

>>You are, though<< laughed Zaide. >>That's kind of your job. Silke was always the dreamer who came up with the ideas, while you were the pessimist who pointed out where the pitfalls were, so we wouldn't walk into them, and Myrthe was always the realist and the bean-counter who made sure it all happened.<<

I stared at Zaide, realising how indispensable she had become to us over the past year, and feeling very grateful that she had been there to pick up the slack after Silke's desertion. But oh god. Suddenly I saw the pitfall that none of them seemed to have noticed. >>Well, you know, there is something that none of you guys have taken into account here.<<

>>No, trust me, I've accounted for everything, bar acts of god<< Myrthe laughed.

>>You are forgetting<< I reminded her. >>That Silke still, technically, owns one third of this company. And we can't make decisions without her consent, even if she has decided to run away, back to the Middle Ages. We need to figure out a way to circumvent her consent, or else buy her out. And where are we going to get the money to do that, if we are planning the massive expansion of starting a shop, and investing in stock, and fitting, and... oh my god, we are going to have to get Wolfgang back in, aren't we?<<

For a few minutes, Myrthe and I just stared at each other, feeling all of our big plans slipping down the drain, but finally she spoke. >>We could go public.<<

>>What?<< I stuttered. >>Go public with what? This is hardly gossip.<<

>>No, silly, not go public like that. I mean, go public with our company. Sell stock. We split it up, so that we keep a controlling interest of 51 to 60 or so percent, and sell the rest. That way, we keep control, but we raise the money to buy out Silke's share.<<

>>If, indeed, she'll sell<< I sighed.

>>She'll sell<< Myrthe assured me, her mouth set in a grim line. >>Because I have some dirt on her, and it's time Silke faced a bit of her own medicine.<<

>>What?<< I demanded, wondering what could possibly be left.

Myrthe shook her head, and she never did tell me what it was. But Silke paid for that silence, as she agreed to sell her stake in the company, and the rest of us agreed to go to the lawyer and start the process to offer shares in our company. Paul, as proud a papa as if I were one of his own daughters, bought the first shares. And Johannes and his Italian boyfriend bought a large chunk, as he was becoming more and more excited about the idea of a shop to expand his wholesale business into. 

Myrthe wanted to divide up our controlling share so that each of us had 26% or 27% of the whole company, but I put my foot down and said no. Each of us would have only 22%. What about the rest of the controlling share, Myrthe wanted to know. >>Look> I said. >>It was always good that there were three of us making the decisions, so there was never a deadlock. Let's assign 11% to Zaide, since we're promoting her from production manager to designer. And she will be our new tie-breaker.<<

It was a satisfactory decision all around. But when it came down to going back to our interior decorator to fit out our new shop, our little friend Wolfgang was no longer available.

Power Station, it seemed, with the final finishing touches of the Hawaiian guitar, had finally completed their album. And this new album, full of arty little pop songs and dance tracks, required a human drummer to play it live. On the record, Flori and Ralf had taken turns, alternately playing a small, child's kit that had a soft, gentle sound, and triggering the sounds on Peter's rhythm machine by hand. 

But no self-respecting drummer in Düsseldorf was willing to be caught dead performing with either! I knew that they had approached one rock drummer, and a couple of jazz drummers about performing with them, and honestly, Power Station were so well known by this point, that it would have been a good gig, a respectable job for anyone to perform live with them. But the child's drumkit was like a kind of test for Ralf. No drummer with an ego would sit at that ridiculous little kit, which was kind of the point. Flori was completely fed up with drummers who had massive egos, and had the scars (well - a tiny little mark so small he had to use a make-up mirror to see it) to prove it. They had got very used to playing quietly, in a restrained and well... _mannered_ fashion, and they had no desire to fight to hear themselves over another loud, overbearing drummer.

Flori had inveigled from me the address of the architects' office where Wolfgang was working, and twisted Ralf's arm into going for a visit. Ralf was not keen; he had never particularly liked Wolfgang, who he considered a playboy and a bit of a gigolo. (To be fair, Wolfgang had flirted with Isabella once or twice in clubs, but the idea of Isabella going with a layabout like Wolfgang? Please, give the lady more credit!) But Flori hemmed and hawed and elbowed Ralf in the ribs until Ralf somehow spat it out that they wanted to try him out, mentioning the performance at the club in Mönchengladbach that we had all witnessed.

Wolfgang had been utterly astonished, as he knew that Ralf didn't particularly like him. But his curiosity had won out over his suspicions, and he had agreed to meet them for a session at the studio on Mintropstrasse that they had already started, jokingly at first, to call Klingklang.

Ralf pointed him at the child's drumkit, expecting the usual tantrum and the you-can't-be-serious-I-am-an-artist nonsense before having to drive him home again with no hard feelings. But Wolfgang, perhaps because he was so small himself, did not even balk at the child's kit. He was the first drummer who had not fallen at the first hurdle. Flori told me that at that moment, he looked over at Ralf with a very significant glance, as if to say, _this is the one_ , but Ralf had studiously avoided his gaze.

Wolfgang was not a showy drummer, in fact quite the reverse - he played what Ralf called his 'Neanderthal beat' slow and steady as a metronome, and didn't flinch at any of Flori's strange electronic sounds. In fact, when Flori had shown him Peter's rhythm machine, his eyes had brightened, and he had exclaimed >>Very cool<< with what seemed like a genuine interest, though I'm not sure he entirely understood what it actually was.

Ralf had driven the diminutive drummer home, at the end of a perfectly competent two hours, but he reported that he felt no spark. There had not been the tingle of electricity that he had felt lighting up all the hairs on the back of his neck that he had felt the first time they had played with Klaus.

>>That was not electricity<< Florian quipped. >>It was probably fear, and we should have listened to it, as just remember what a monster he turned out to be. Look, Wolfgang is not bright, but he's harmless. He will suit us just fine.<<

Flori, you see, liked Wolfgang. He found him amusing, and as they shared a slightly childlike sense of humour, the pair of them had been able to have a few jokes and share a few giggles together. Florian always warmed to people who laughed at his slightly surreal jokes and wordplay. But Ralf was resolute. No Wolfgang! So Flori and Ralf bickered over it for weeks, as they mixed and mastered this third, as yet unnamed album. The summer was too warm, and everyone's patience was stretched thin. They debated it in bars, and in restaurants as Isabella and I tried very hard to ignore them.

On the negative side, well, for a start, he was Wolfgang Flür, which was already a mark against him in Ralf's book. He came from a rock background, rather than a jazz or improvisational background. He hadn't even known what a synthesiser was when he walked in, and had remarked that Flori's beloved new ARP Odyssey looked like some kind of telephone switchboard! Oh, and he was _very_ middle class, which I thought was an odd thing for Ralf to hold against him, as honestly, what did Ralf think _he_ was? Not to mention, the fact that he was too short. It bothered Ralf already that he was quite a few inches shorter than Flori, so to have someone that much shorter again would look very strange onstage. I did not point out that Ralf wasn't that much taller than Wolfgang, and the extra height was made up only by the cuban heels on his scruffy white chelsea boots. But then there was the matter of his looks.

>>You know you boys are just being silly now<< Isabella interjected, as she was by now, even more sick of the Wolfgang debates than I was. >>it doesn't hurt at all, to have a handsome drummer join you onstage, that is, if you wish to pick up a substantial female following.<<

>>Handsome<< said Ralf, narrowing his eyes under his new glasses. He had started wearing old-fashioned engineer's glasses from the 1950s, which Isabella said suited his very square face better than the huge chunky plastic frames he had previously been wearing. >>You think he's handsome?<<

>>Well, he does have a certain, undeniable sex appeal, don't you think, Jan?<< shrugged Isabella.

And that was it, the final black mark against Wolfgang. Ralf did not want a drummer that his own girlfriend thought of as having _sex appeal_.

In the positive column, there were simply no other drummers left in Düsseldorf that Power Station had not fought with, or ruled out for excessive ego.

Ralf's reluctance was, I think, mostly down to that odd sex appeal. I never quite worked it out, if Ralf's feelings about Wolfgang were complicated by envy, or by jealousy, or by both. Because although both Ralf and Flori were both good-looking men, there was something so curiously non-sexy about their stage presence. Flori, I loved him dearly but it was his animation and his intelligence that made him so good-looking and attractive to me. And Ralf was pretty, but there was something about him that just wasn't sexual. Even in those form-fitting leather trousers that showed off the pert outline of his buttocks, he remained too closed-off and too uptight to ever really be sexy. And yet Wolfgang, in just a pair of jeans and a casual jumper, exuded sexuality. It wasn't just his looks, it was a kind of animal grace. Wolfgang was comfortable in his own body. He enjoyed his body; and surveyed the world with an attitude that made it clear he would like others to enjoy that body, too. And Ralf was not immune. I would catch Ralf staring at him sometimes, though not with lust, but with curiosity.

Because really, I think if Ralf could have chosen his looks from a catalogue, he would have chosen a face like Wolfgang's. Those warm, dark, slightly sleepy bedroom eyes, where Ralf's were cold blue and always distinctly sad. That well-proportioned, movie-star jaw, where Ralf's was an odd rectangle that didn't match the rest of his face. That noble Roman nose, where Ralf had a slightly retroussé button nose that turned up annoyingly at the tip, especially when he smiled. And worst of all, that hair, that perfectly straight, perfectly black hair that always flopped perfectly, exactly where he wanted it, while Ralf had that fluffy mess that never stayed put, curling where it should have been straight, and straight where he wanted curls, bleaching in the sun, but never content to be either dark blond or light brown. Ralf wrestled with his hair and had to oil and beat it into submission; Wolfgang had hair that invited strangers to run their fingers through it. Ralf wanted to resent Wolfgang, but was unable to. Because secretly, he both admired and yet coveted those film-star looks and that charismatic, sexual charm.

But eventually, Flori won out and persuaded Ralf to give the little drummer another go. They would do some rehearsals with him, and if it worked out, they had been booked for another television appearance on ZDF, promoting the new album, which was due out in October. If it didn't work out, what had they lost? A few hours' rehearsal.

When Wolfgang turned up to the first rehearsal, it turned out that he had grown a ridiculous drooping Pancho Villa moustache. Isabella looked at it in horror, and though she was too tactful to say anything to his face, Ralf smiled smugly at the change in his girlfriend's reaction to him. In addition to this, little Wolfgang had somehow managed to obtain a pair of three inch platform boots, of the style that David Bowie liked to perform in. These were a hideous metallic green that would have looked more appropriate on a family car, but at least they evened up the height difference, so that Ralf and the diminutive drummer could see eye to eye, physically, if not philosophically. So Wolfgang was engaged as their new drummer, at least up until the television appearance.


	52. Ralf und Florian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Wolfgang moves into the fabled flat on the Berger Allee, Emil, Jan and the boys prepare the artwork for the third Power Station album, simply named Ralf und Florian.

Once Flori and Ralf had agreed on their new drummer, it was time to finish the third Power Station album, which they had decided, quite simply, to call _Ralf und Florian_. After all, it was their first intensely personal album, all about their lives, their homes, their friends. It was also the first album that Emil designed the cover for, as this was to be Emil's new job within the band, doing the artwork and the design. And Emil had the bright idea of making the whole album design be about Ralf and Florian, as people, as well as musicians. 

There was to be a photograph of them on the front cover, a very old fashioned black and white photograph done at a professional photo studio. The pair of them looked oddly like a young bourgeois married couple typical of the 50s; Flori in his best suit, his eyes bright, though with the diamante brooch making him look ever so slightly camp, and Ralf with his long hair carefully combed about his shoulders, pouting his cautious little-boy smile in almost feminine prettiness. Isabella had put her foot down and told him not to wear all his 'grotty leather gear' so instead, he wore a checked button-down shirt, with a black cardigan over the top. The pair of them looked oddly respectable, even conservative.

Emil really hammed up the cover design, making it look like an old-fashioned album of jazz standards from the 1930s, but with the boys' names in thick, heavy, German black letter type. Ralf Hütter, it said on one side, and Florian Schneider on the other. That was a big step for both of us. After careful thought, we had decided to drop the slightly clunky second halves of our surnames. After all, no one except the Engineering School bothered with my DeLay any more, and quite frankly, my lover was tired of being compared to his father, and wanted the far more earthy, working-class associations of being just plain Schneider, without the Esleben.

For the back cover, they used one of my photos of Klingklang. I was proud of it, as it had been an incredibly difficult photo to pose, and then light, but Helmut's hard-won advice, for once, had come in useful. The boys set up all their gear the way they did onstage, with the power cable between them, and their neon name-boxes in front, with the kitsch lamp at the back, with Flori's lucky pineapple still dangling from it. For the ambient lighting, I borrowed strips of neon off Claudia, in soft colours, pink and lavender, and pale green, and set them up in the background, using the whitewashed walls of the studio to diffuse the light and send a soft sheen of colour across their faces, and the piles of strange technology that they were so keen to show off. The Farfisa, the Synthi, the odd Alice in Wonderland speaker horn that had first brought Flori and I together all those years ago; these I thought were just as important as the two beautiful young men looking at each other across the room.

It took forever to get the pose right, because more than anything, I wanted to capture the way that Ralf and Flori _looked_ at one another. It was very important to me that they look at each other, not at the camera, with that spooky ESP-like rapport they shared while playing. Ralf, I caught with his legs tightly crossed, one hand between his knees fidgeting with the seam of his leather trousers, the other holding a naughty joint, his pointed chin raised and his mouth slightly open to grin at Flori. Flori, by contrast was calm and relaxed in his dark suit, his flute across his knees, his face alert as he gazed back at Ralf with his familiar expression of pure devotion. It was still one of my favourite photos of them that I ever took, simply for the way they were staring at one another, so excited and so happy. They, only half-jokingly, reminded me that it was a great honour for me to be admitted inside Klingklang, as they were still very secretive about it. Isabella still didn't even know exactly where it was! But I was the first woman to be admitted inside that hallowed hall, though with time, I would not be the last.

For the rest of the album art, Emil, Flori and Ralf sat down and created a 'musicomic' poster to be included inside. Emil did comics or collages about all of the songs, while Flori contributed amusing cartoons, and Ralf small, technical drawings. And all of us were to be in it, either in cartoon form or cut out of Polaroids and decorated by Emil. Ralf appeared, looking very starry-eyed, with piano keys in his hair and melodies coming out of his ears. Flori, like a mad scientist, reclined in a comfortable chair with a stereo and television built into it, wearing his leopard spotted vest and his ridiculous cats-eye sunglasses. And Emil presided over a futuristic looking gang of musicians playing pyramid-shaped instruments. 

But woven in among the illustrations, there were the rest of us! I appeared, amusingly, in my fluffy white sheepskin, my eyes downcast as if I were staring at Flori's orange satin bum, next to me on the page. On the same page were Tina and Claudia, intent on deciphering a letter from Flori, while Evamaria stood proudly in the centre, like a matriarch, holding a bowl of fruit. An unfamiliar woman who turned out to be Ralf's mysterious sister Anke made an appearance, too, playing a piano in front of a pastoral German mountain scene. Isabella, of course, presided over Ralf's page like a queen, though Ralf had decided to go Weber und Schneider one better by drawing her an elaborate gown, albeit a slightly lopsided gown. Isabella, Myrthe and I looked at his efforts, including a rather ridiculous textile designed of drawings of telephones and accordions, and laughed and advised, well, Ralfi, don't give up the day job. And, there beside her was Heidi, DJ-ing away at her shop, demanding a record she could dance to. Emil even found in a way to work in a reference to the infamous watermelon incident, with a couple reclining in a hammock on a beach, eating watermelon. (We laughed for days over the watermelon, though Ralf rather fumed.)

Everywhere there were jokes and puns and funny allusions to incidents in our lives. Ralf and Flori appeared as musicians, as pairs of shoes (white chelsea boots stalked the whole booklet) and even as a pair of input jacks shorting each other out with a Moog and an amplifier. It was, in short, not just a portrait of Ralf and Florian, but a portrait of our whole Düsseldorf scene, albeit one concentrating heavily on the girls in it, thanks to Emil. (I did, after all, find it slightly odd that Evamaria was included, but Paul was not; and Heidi got a cameo, but then again, Peter did not. That said, it was rather nice, the one and only time in their careers that all of the women in their lives, us women that loved them and cared for them and inspired them, were actually acknowledged and celebrated.)

And the music on that album! It was such a great leap forward from the extended jams and experimental sketches of the first two records. Ralf and Flori had indeed accomplished their stated task; they had learned to write beautiful little catchy, self-contained songs. Electric Roulette and Dancemusic were almost... pop, and in Dancemusic and Crystals, yes, they had finally written songs that all the girls could dance to. Mountain of Sound and The Bells of Home were just lush and beautiful and... _pretty_ in a way that I had never really expected they would allow themselves to indulge. And Pineapple Symphony... I loved it for sentimental reasons, obviously, but I also thought it was one of the most beautiful things that Flori had ever written. 

Since he had, on his return from Forst, finally sold that leopard-print Mustang guitar to Michael, and obtained an actual Hawaiian Guitar in its place, he had spent weeks sitting with the thing on his lap, mastering the strange, unearthly floating tones it produced, the notes bending and wavering in the air, like tropical breezes. He told me he had tried to imagine a South African beach, palm trees and pineapples - it sounded more like Durban than landlocked Koffiefonteine to be honest - but I did appreciate the sentiment.

To this day, it is still my favourite of their albums, though I know they don't even rate it enough to re-release it. It is simply just warmer, and more sentimental, and far more _personal_ than their later work. (Though I suspect those are the qualities that they have come to dislike in it. I have always wondered if this is why this record was never re-released, because it showed them, not as unfeeling technocrats, but as young men deeply enmeshed in a web of other humans, most of them female.) I listen to it, and it is a snapshot of a time and place, and people I loved deeply, and a period of my life when I was happier than any other.

To tour the album, and perform the television appearances that they had booked, the band now started rehearsing in earnest with Wolfgang. I think Wolfgang, who had not seen them perform live since the first album, was still under the impression that Michael was playing with the band. Michael, however, despite being long gone from Power Station, was at that point, no longer even playing with NEW!. Klaus had been making too many decisions - such as hiring his own brother as a second drummer - without consulting his input, and Michael was so put out that he had finally moved beyond the stage of saying >>Hmmmm, Klaus, do you really think so<< in increasing tones of alarm, and had made a decision of his own. Michael, you see, had upped sticks and moved to Forst.

Like Hans-Joachim, initially it had only been intended to last a month or so. Since the shop was being refurbished, Myrthe had decided she no longer wanted to live above the noise and industry of what was now essentially a clothing factory, so the apartment where she and Michael had been living was being gutted and turned into more sewing and machinist space, which we were coming very rapidly to need. But while trying to oversee the conversion process, and at the same time overseeing the production of our new, daring range of clothes, she was simply too busy to look for a new place to live. They stayed with friends for a while, but in the middle of all this, Moebie wrote and said "Hey, there's plenty of room out in our commune. The weather is lovely, the river is delightfully cool, and the recording studio is finally finished."

It was too much for Michael to resist. Despite Myrthe's entreaties, he packed up all of his gear into his car on a bright Sunday in June, and headed off. There was no question of Myrthe going with him. She could not run the business from a commune in the deep countryside! So neither of them were pleased with the alternatives, but Michael was determined to go. And so he went. Rather admirably, the pair of them endeavoured their hardest to keep the relationship going long distance. But Myrthe hated going to the commune, mostly because Silke was there. Silke, annoyingly, thought they were still the best of friends, despite how far their lives had drifted apart. 

For Silke, bright beautiful Silke, was now a farmwife, who painted the occasional pastoral watercolour for fun, and sold them at a shop in Holzminden, to help pay the endlessly outstanding bills. While Myrthe was an accomplished businesswoman who was used to running a small corporation that now had an annual turnover reaching five figures! Both of them thought the other's concerns were completely shallow. They did not get on. Which made visits tricky, as Michael was now spending all of his time and all of his emotional energy working on this exciting new music with Moebie and Achim. To give them credit, Myrthe and Michael soldiered on together, but I think they both slowly realised it was becoming impossible, the longer and longer he stayed on in the country.

In the Power Station camp, rehearsals with little Wolfgang had started in earnest, towards the end of that long, hot summer. Florian was very pleased with the new addition, who turned out to have some highly advantageous technical skills of his own. Having worked as a shop-front designer for some time, he had become very good at building things and wiring things. When presented with the ungainly manual controller for the rhythm machine that Peter and Flori had constructed, Wolfgang took it apart and put it together again as a flat sheet with the pads all laid out in order.

He built a metal box to house the electronics, and covered the whole ugly thing with a rather attractive and futuristic celluloid material that Claudia had originally obtained for making chunky but light metallic-look jewellery. It looked like no instrument anyone had ever seen before, and was played not with drumsticks, but with strange metal styluses like knitting needles, which completed a circuit and triggered the noise. It wasn't like a normal drum, where you hit it once and made a complete sound. It had to be touched for as long as it took the sound to complete, with the volume manipulated with a foot pedal. It was a tricky piece of machinery to work, but Wolfgang, with his deft touch, soon worked out how to create an intriguing and unique sound with it, that perfectly suited Power Station's new, futuristic music.

No matter what they threw at him - toy drumkits, drum machines, touch pads, knitting needles - Wolfgang seemed to take it in his stride, simply sitting down and playing his minimalist rhythms with metronomic precision and a look of intense concentration that seemed to bring a noble air to his rather weasely little face. Apart from anything else, Wolfgang just _looked_ good onstage. He knew how to hold himself, and he had the natural grace of a born actor, something it had taken Flori, and worse still, the awkward Ralf, some time to learn how to project.

Over the next few weeks, as we spent more casual time together, I found myself growing to like him, perhaps against my better judgement. Little Wolfgang was, it turned out, actually very funny, with a comic actor's timing, though this, too, rubbed Ralf the wrong way. Although Flori was possessed of a keen sense of the absurd and enjoyed joking around with Wolfgang, Ralf, at that point, still took himself very seriously, and did not particularly like finding himself the butt of Wolfgang's sly needling. But Wolfgang was warm and sensitive, and prone to displays of emotion and sentimentality that I was very unused to in a German male. Wolfgang was not afraid to cry at sad movies, or pronounce himself deeply moved by sentimental music, and he had the habit of openly expressing affection for both men and women, throwing his arms around his friends in greeting, even moreso when slightly drunk. He had, I believe, a humanising effect on both Florian and Ralf. Wolfgang made friends easily, which Ralf certainly did not, and I sometimes caught Ralf studying him, as if trying to work out how to do it, when Wolfgang was holding court, in a nightclub or at a bar.

The problem was, that Ralf always _chased_ people, just like he chased girls. I'd experienced it myself, and knew how off-putting it was. Ralf was domineering and opinionated, and though he eventually learned to temper this with humour, what Ralf wanted was to control the situation, and that meant controlling people. Wolfgang, on the other hand, always pulled back a little, like it was a fun game for him, and almost invited people to chase him. Ralf had a habit of acting so intense that it was like demanding "like me, like me, like me" over and over again. Wolfgang, though, had a habit of just hanging back and acting so cool and so charming that you found yourself working to make _him_ like you. It could be devastating; I knew women that wrecked themselves on him.

Although he had a reputation as a ladies' man (though I never did find out if the rumours about his penis size were true) there was something very feminine, perhaps even effeminate, about Wolfgang. It wasn't just his almost girlish beauty, as Wolfgang, encouraged by Ralf and his collection of nail varnishes, had also started to wear a little bit of make-up. There was something that was very soft and gentle about him. Though he could hold a grudge, by nature, he was a warm-hearted and _kind_ man, which Ralf never was, but I believe Florian always secretly really rather wanted to be. I never quite trusted Wolfgang, because he did treat most things like a game, but I did grow to like him.

Which is why I was quite upset, when I found out that Ralf was setting him up to be the butt of a rather mean joke. Now that Ralf's band was ostensibly successful, he was developing a slightly cruel side to his humour, that his natural arrogance did not help.

I had joined the boys for a drink after work at a rather fashionable bar on Ratinger Strasse. Flori and I sat at our table, while Ralf and Emil started battling on the pinball machines. Oh, Ralf was an absolute menace at those things! Pinball machines, videogames, they really brought out the worst in him. Flori played games mostly for the fun of working out the system, but for Ralf, his competitive streak was easily triggered, and he played for the sole point of utterly annihilating his opponent. Emil was so easy-going, he never really took things personally, and I think he was letting Ralf win to spare the inevitable sulk.

But when Wolfgang arrived, I don't think that he had quite gathered that letting Ralf win was the order of the day, to avoid the freezing cold glares and the silent, icy disapproval that constituted one of Ralf's temper tantrums. Wolfgang, with his nerves of steel, his steady reflexes, and his absolute dead-on timing, was proving to be much better at pinball than Ralf was, and Ralf started behaving very strangely about it, acting very shy and standoffish with Wolfgang, narrowing his eyes at him as soon as his back was turned. But Wolfgang was as gracious a winner as Ralf was a sore loser, and offered to buy the next round anyway, slapping Ralf on the back and offering, without guile, to show him a few tips on how to win the next game.

Oddly, I think that was the thing that turned Emil's opinion around on Wolfgang, as I knew he was still very suspicious of him over the whole Silke thing (though I would not find out about his change of heart for a few days yet). Emil, I knew, acted in public as if he had only had his nose put mildly out of joint by Silke's absconding with Achim. After all, they had been officially broken up a long time, as Silke would never be content to settle down with a man with such a pedestrian profession as gymnasium art teacher. But I think, deep down, despite his casual air, Emil really had been in love with Silke, because his attitude towards women, which had been merely conservative before Silke, had become far more wounded and negative. (I knew for a fact that he wrote poetry about her, and some of that poetry was not very nice.) So I was under the impression that Emil was still angry at Wolfgang for picking Silke up from under his nose not once, but twice.

Shortly after the game ended, the three of them disappeared. I assumed that they had just gone on to another bar, or perhaps to find a different pinball machine so that Ralf could settle the score. Flori and I finished our wine and went home together because, to be honest, the physicality of playing pinball often made him slightly randy.

But a few days later, I found out what the whispering and the secrecy and the plotting had been about, as Flori came home in the early evening, clearly deeply amused by something. >>Do you know<< he said with an impish grin. >>I think Ralf's plan has backfired on him. Emil has asked Wolfgang to move in with him.<<

>>What?<< I gasped, wondering how on earth this had come about. As far as I knew, Emil still disliked Wolfgang! >>Why would he do such a thing?<<

>>You know Ralf's old room. Ralf doesn't want it any more, as he's going to be getting a new place with Isabella. So Ralf thought he would get Wolfgang's hopes up by suggesting it to him, and tricking him into asking Emil if he could live there, knowing full well that Emil would tell him to get lost. He thought this would be a hilarious prank to pull on Wolfgang, who he thinks is just a little bit too cocksure of his own charms.<<

>>It's not hilarious, it's just mean<< I protested. >>You know how weird Emil is about anything involving Silke.<<

>>Yes, but this is what is so amusing!<< insisted Flori. >>Emil and Wolfgang spent the evening playing pinball with Ralf, and Emil found it so funny that Wolfgang kept beating him - and easily, when you know how ridiculous Ralf is about losing - that the two of them are now firm friends. And Wolfgang has moved into Ralf's old room in the Berger Allee.<<

>>No<< I gasped. >>I don't believe it. This is some trick! Oh, Ralf can be so beastly sometimes...<<

>>No, it's true<< Flori affirmed. >>You can go and see for yourself if you don't believe me.<<

>>Oh my god, I think I need to go and check that they haven't _killed_ each other. << Racing downstairs, I unlocked my bicycle, and flew down to the Berger Allee as fast as my wheels could carry me. Standing on tip-toes, I tried to look in Emil's front windows, and listened out for the sound of raised voices, but the room was dark and silent. Oh Christ, that was not a good sign. I locked my bicycle outside, and crept timidly to the front door, where I rang the bell.

After a few minutes, Emil appeared, beaming when he saw me, and throwing his arms around me, like he was already a little drunk. >>Jan! What a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in. We're just sitting down to dinner.<< He lead me through into the main hall, where I was half expecting to see Wolfgang's dismembered body hanging from the ceiling, but no. Wolfgang was reclining on a pile of cushions, in front of a large pot of delicious-smelling stew. The whole studio had been decorated with many paintings, both by Emil and some of his students, and was lit, somewhat romantically, with about a dozen candles and tea lights. >>You remember Wolfi. And Wolfi, this is Jan. Jan is Florian's girlfriend.<<

>>Oh yes, we've met<< Wolfgang purred, looking very pleased with himself indeed. >>I didn't know you were such good friends with Emil.<<

I stared at Wolfgang, feeling completely gobsmacked, trying to work out what on earth had happened between the two men, then realised from his patient expression that he was expecting me to speak. >>Oh yes. We are very good friends from university. I like Emil, a lot.<< I managed to stutter, though I did not trust my voice.

>>Oh, Emil is so good to me!<< Wolfgang exclaimed, and honestly, he was one of those men who had to speak all of the time, as if he couldn't bear silence and needed to fill it all up with the sound of his own voice. >>Do you know what he has done tonight? He has cooked a special supper, just for us, in celebration of my moving in. Did you know, Jan, that in addition to being a very talented painter, Emil is a most marvellous cook? I am so lucky! This food, it is so good. Emil, you spoil me so much.<<

Emil smiled, and blushed slightly, and I swear, he almost simpered like a girl. >>Oh, it's nothing, I swear, Wolfi, just something I threw together from what I could get in the market. You are too kind.<<

This time, I gaped at Emil, feeling words completely failing me. The way the pair of them were laughing and joking, it was almost, but not quite, like flirtation. And then I realised. Emil was highly susceptible to _charm_. It was the same as it had been with Silke - despite the way she treated him, Silke had charmed him again and again, and he had been almost helpless against her.

>>Will you have some, Jan? It is most delicious...<< Wolfgang offered, holding out his bowl of stew.

I shook my head quickly, as soon as I saw a lump of some unidentifiable meat floating in the broth, and resumed my study of Wolfgang. Although I had been expecting, I don't know, bite marks on his neck or something, I soon saw that he completely held the upper hand in the situation. Emil was eating out of the palm of his hand.

>>Jan is a vegetarian<< prompted Emil in explanation, and I realised with a start that I had missed one of those occasions where I was supposed to speak.

>>She's not very lively, is she?<< Wolfgang said, fluttering his eyelashes, and I couldn't quite tell if this was teasing, if he was making a joke at my expense, or if I was supposed to protest, and insist that actually, I _was_ quite lively, and proceed to entertain him at length. But I was tired, and I decided that the best recourse with Wolfgang was, as always, just to glare at him until he stopped trying to speak to me.

>>Jan is one of the smartest women I've ever known<< Emil conceded, with a heartfelt smile. 

>>Smart?<< said Wolfgang, his eyes lighting up in a wicked grin. >>Well. I am glad to hear this. I was worried she might be one of those stuck-up Düsseldorf model types. Oh... you know the sort.<< At this, he leapt to his feet and started to prance about, holding his nose in the air with one hand, the other hand on his hip, as he minced about in an almost perfect parody of the hip-swinging walk that Silke had used when she modelled. >>Weeellll, does this remind you of anyone we know?<<

I stared at him, flabbergasted, feeling very torn between emotions. At another time, I might have protested that he was being cruel towards Silke, as it was obviously her carriage, her gait, her tempestuous toss of the head, that he had caught. But there was another part of me, a reckless, faithless part, that was still angry at Silke over her betrayal of Claudia, and to be honest, Wolfgang's imitation of her was so uncannily accurate that it was wickedly funny.

Then I felt a pang of guilt, wondering how Emil would respond to this performance, glancing over towards him, expecting to see him sitting there with a face like a stormcloud, like he normally did when anyone mentioned his fickle ex girlfriend. But Emil, to my great surprise, was almost shaking with laughter, slapping his knee and rolling his handsome blue eyes, and I realised with a shock that Emil and Wolfgang might have _bonded_ over both being thrown over by Silke's whims.

>>No, no<< insisted Emil, as he wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes. >>Jan is not like that at all. Schneider is quite different to Weber. But really, you need to have _Herr_ Schneider around if you want to get any _social_ conversation out of our Little Mouse. <<

>>She is so quiet, I cannot imagine her speaking at all<< giggled Wolfgang as he sat down again, speaking of me as if I were not even in the room, though he was looking straight at me.

But Emil turned and half-smiled at me. >>Do you know, it is almost like they have their own private dialect, sometimes, listening to them, this Schneider-Eslebish which is half German, half Germangled English, and full of puns and allusions and endless in-jokes between the two of them. She and Florian are very comical together, very amusing.<< I stared back at him, astonished, as I had previously been completely unaware of how either Flori or myself, let alone the intensity of our relationship, came across to our friends.

>>Oh, Florian is wonderful, though<< Wolfgang enthused, and I wondered if he was one of those simple men that just found everything to his liking. >>He is a bit strange, to be sure, but he is a very, very funny man. Most amusing.<<

>>Flori isn't strange at all<< I said defensively, and Wolfgang looked surprised to hear me speak.

>>Oh but he is! I do not mean it in a bad way, but...<< Suddenly, Wolfgang was on his feet again, but this time he was carrying himself with that very straight, very erect posture so typical of Flori, twitching his head from side to side in that characteristic birdlike restlessness of Flori's, even saying >>Hmmmm<< in Flori's exact guttural cadence as he poked his nose curiously about the room, pretending to be distracted by wires and speaker cabinets and the undersides of bookshelves. Really, I should have been cross, because I didn't think it was nice to make fun of Flori like that, but on another level, I did have to suppress the urge to laugh, because there seemed to be no maliciousness in it, and again, Wolfgang seemed to have caught some essence of Florian's personality absolutely perfectly. He had a real comic gift, that Wolfgang.

>>They are just as strange as each other!<< Emil laughed. >>They are one of those couples where you just have to be grateful that the pair of them found each other, they suit one another so well.<<

>>...because no one else would have them?<< giggled Wolfgang, and slapped his thigh as he returned to his supper again. Wolfgang, it seemed, really enjoyed laughing, and was perfectly happy to laugh at his own jokes if need be. >>I am only joking, of course, my dear-heart. I like your Florian a lot. You two suit each other perfectly.<<

I said nothing, I just continued to stare at him, mostly because I knew it unnerved him. 

But Emil laughed aloud, and he sounded so joyful and content when he laughed at Wolfgang that I started to think that maybe the jocular company of the drummer might be good for him. Because Emil, I knew, was one of those sensitive young men who was very attuned to the moods of people around him. When he was around Ralf's quiet intensity, he was very quiet and intense, and when he was around Silke's tense, brittle excitement, he was nervous and brittle; while if he was around less tense people, his mood seemed much lighter.

So Emil and Wolfgang fell back to talking, about Wolfgang's favourite subject, which was, of course, girls. I stayed for a few hours, quietly observing, just making sure to my own satisfaction that Emil and Wolfgang had buried the hatchet and really were friends now. But Emil, it seemed, was not actually a man to hold a grudge. They even joked a few times, about their shared past, and I thought it was a good sign that Emil was able to talk about Silke without wincing or insisting that all women were unfaithful whores. And Wolfgang, for his part, seemed so happy-go-lucky that he was mostly sanguine about how Silke had thrown him over to move to Forst. He did not want a steady girlfriend, he insisted, he just wanted to flirt and play the field.


	53. Gold Diggers of 1973

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weber und Schneider open their new boutique, which rapidly becomes the coolest place to hang out in Düsseldorf. Power Station go on the television with their new drummer, Wolfgang, and the band slowly starts to expand again. And although they seem to have attracted some powerful English Big Name Fans, NEW! are slowly imploding.

In the autumn of 1973, the new expanded line-up of Power Station was ready to fly up to Berlin to record their television appearance. They played a warm-up gig in Hamburg first, as a three-piece, with their strange new electronic drums. I took photos of the three of them, horsing around by the harbour. Flori and Wolfgang had already fallen into a kind of double-act comedy routine, trading jokes and broad grins, though Ralf was still rather cautious by nature. We tricked Ralf into innocently posing for a photo standing by a street sign that said "Virgin Walk", but Flori could not keep a straight face and burst into a spontaneous little jig of joy. Wolfgang took control of my camera and snapped a photo of the three of us, Flori and Ralf and I, all arm in arm, squinting into the sun in our fashionable shades, with even Ralf forgetting his caution and grinning like a loon. Those were such happy, fun innocent days. our hopeful smiles so bright. And then I kissed my Junge goodbye and put them on a plane to Berlin for their grand television appearance.

And so, as Power Station showed off their new line-up, the new configuration of Weber und Schneider opened our brand new boutique. Although I was worried about losing the desirable address of the Königsallee, it turned out to be a good move, as many of the more hip shoppers of Düsseldorf were starting to consider the Kö a bit overcommercialised. It was the sort of place that Evamaria would buy her fashionable but mature outfits, yes, but the younger generation, myself, Isabella, Claudia, and especially girls of Tina's age, were looking for something new. We filled somehow a gap in the market, somewhere between the upscale elegance of the Kö, and the tatty but fashion-forward attitude of the Altstadt markets.

We opened with a great fanfare, and a giant party at the shop, the invitation list to which Johannes managed with strict, almost brutal efficiency. Our shop, itself, was a work of art. Since we no longer had Wolfgang to design for us, we had hired Claudia, now that she was a qualified architect. As if to prove something to that no-good Hans-Joachim, she had powered through her course, passed the architectural exam with flying colours (I had always suspected that Claudia was cleverer than Ralf!) and was in the process of establishing CSE as a design force to rival PSE. Claudia, I think, in contrast with her brother, _wanted_ the association with her famous father, wanted to be seen as the rightful heir to an established aesthetic dynasty, a decision I understood more, the more I rubbed up against the sexist assumptions of Düsseldorf's scene.

Myrhe and Zaide had outdone themselves with the ideas for our shop, and Claudia had turned them into a glittering reality. It was bright, and modern, all full of silver and chrome and shiny bits of refracted glass - and of course Claudia's beloved neon lights - but with a modernist take on the Art Deco of the 1920s. >>Metropolis meets Barbarella at a computer-age discotheque<< we had told Claudia, and she had taken that theme and run with it. Claudia, my bold, beloved, fearless sister-in-law, was finally acting more like herself again, bursting with creativity and her own original ideas.

It was a beautiful shop, and suited our needs perfectly. There was even a DJ booth, with a record player wired into our PA system, set up on a little platform above the tills, and Heidi made sure it was always full of the latest records (in exchange for an employee's discount on her purchases, of course). It was the sort of thing that was common, on Carnaby Street, or in Paris, but in Düsseldorf, this was still highly unusual and rather exciting, this merger of discotheque and boutique.

At the back of the boutique, we had commissioned a pair of grand, sweeping semi-circular staircases up to the office, not just to use them for additional display space, but so that we could hold impromptu fashion shows, with models swooping down from on high, raised above the crowd. And for that first opening night, knowing how many fashion writers and photographers would be there, primed by Helmut to hope for our failure, we actually hired a gaggle of professional models to walk up and down our double-helix staircase, wearing the new 'Gold Diggers of 1973' collection.

And my god, the clothes were amazing! Zaide had taken our 'space princess' concept and expanded it right out into the galaxy. I had never seen such opulence and daring. We all dressed up, of course, me in an astro-flapper gown made of hundreds of overlapping metallic peacock-feathers, Isabella in her gossamer space butterfly dress, Myrthe as an evil moonage space queen, and Zaide looking like empress of an Intergalactic Empire. There was no way the press could say anything unflattering about us, especially as we made sure that the champagne - real French champagne, not that Sekt nonsense of Helmut's - was flowing copiously. Heidi played records to fit the occasion - local heroes like NEW! and Can, and our beloved Bowie and Roxy Music, mixed with wilder American soul and funk, and even a couple of tracks off the new Power Station album, which had not even been released yet.

It was an unqualified success. We were 'mixing the elegance of the Königsallee fashion world with the decadence of an Altstadt discotheque', according to the press. Yes, the next morning, it was me scouring the 'Looking-Glass' for distorted press representations of our grand event. But really, they had not fully glimpsed the genius of our plan - well, Johannes' plan, really - as we had taken the unprecedented step of taking control of our own knock-offs. It was an unfortunate fact, in a city as competitive as Düsseldorf, that as soon as you had unveiled your carefully-designed couture collection on the catwalk or in the expensive magazines, inferior copies of your designs would spring up all over the markets and alleys of the fashion district. Everyone hated it, but there wasn't really anything you could do about it.

Weber und Schneider had decided to confront this problem head on. Upstairs, in the silver and dove-grey offices, we offered the bespoke original outfits to those who could afford the quality and the exclusivity of singular designs. Downstairs, in the shiny, loud, discotheque boutique, we sold our own knock-offs. Not as cheap as the tat they sold in the markets, but still within the range of middle-class teenagers, though of a noticeably better quality. The elegant ladies of Evamaria's generation, they would still shop upstairs. But young people, Tina and her friends' age, flocked to the shop downstairs in droves.

Unfortunately, it was never quite enough. The boutique did eventually start to break even, and just about paid for itself, but the overheads were enormous, as we never cut corners, and insisted on paying everyone - from seamstresses and shop assistants to suppliers - a decent wage. We never built up a huge chunk of capital, and we were always running on loans in the terrifying few weeks before our next season was debuted. It was never quite a case of having bailiffs knocking at the door, but Myrthe constantly _juggled_ , to get it all to work. Things did get tight, and there were several moments that I believed we would have to fold.

But in terms of the cultural impact of our ridiculous, extravagant, uneconomical shop, it had far more of an effect than we had ever dreamed. It became a cool place, not just to shop, but to be seen, and to hang out. In many ways, this was frustrating, and Lotte wanted to start instituting a cover charge for those young people who came just to hang out and try things on, but never actually bought anything. But I said no. It was those young people - many of whom were obsessed with the music of Power Station and NEW! and just hoping for a glimpse of their local music stars stopping in to buy new clothes - who brought the aura of cool to our shop, not the other way around. And, ironically, many of them would go on to start bands of their own, and play in the bars and clubs round the corner, especially the Ratinger Hof. Five to ten years later, when the Neue Deutsche Weller started to make headlines around the world, I was astonished at how many of the musicians I had known as kids, hanging around buying badges or bootlaces at Web-und-Schneid.

I _liked_ the fact that young musicians and the kids who haunted discotheques would hang out in our shop. Because although we had a reputation of being the place where you could ' _pick up the latest Parisian fashions without the bother of going to Paris_ ', mostly thanks to Johannes' distribution contacts, the exchange worked both ways. I remembered, from London, how fads and fashions passed through teenagers like waves, before being picked up by more mainstream fashion designers. In the mainstream fashions of 1973 and 1974, things like ties and collars and the legs of trousers were getting wider and wider and wider. But the cooler kids, almost as a kind of rebellion, wore them narrower and narrower. They listened to bands like Roxy Music and the Stooges, who harkened back to the 1950s, and indeed to bands like Power Station, who evoked the 1920s and 1930s. So Zaide and I watched those kids carefully, and followed the cuts of their collars, not what the American fashion designers were churning out.

People said, over time, that the clothes we would produce over the next few seasons were not just futuristic, but genuinely prescient. In 1974, there wasn't even a _name_ for what would come to be called 'New Wave'. 'New Wave' was just what people called those odd Fassbinder films that Isabella dragged Ralf to. We didn't think of ourselves as far ahead, we just knew that we were out of step with the mainstream fashion world around us, and we preferred what was going on in our own little scene and our own little gang. Without Silke around to tell us to do whatever was about to be fashionable, we just did what made us happy. We weren't prescient, we were just pig-headed about not doing what everyone else was doing. It was pure stubbornness. And then, in a few years' time, when punk (which I always thought was just Glam, all over again, really) and 'New Wave' finally exploded, people suddenly took notice of what we had been doing and wearing all along.

\----------

When Power Station's performance of their new single was to be broadcast on the television, we all gathered at Isabella's flat for drinks and then dinner. It's funny to think that television appearances had become so commonplace for our boys that we no longer celebrated them with massive parties. This was just a quiet, grown-up dinner party, as much, I think, for Isabella and Ralf to entertain for the first time as a couple, as to celebrate the television appearance.

Isabella and Ralf had moved into a very large, very modern apartment with huge, expansive plate-glass windows showing a rather depressing view of industrial cranes and decaying warehouses in the Harbour District. The Harbour District, in the early 70s, had not yet become the trendy "Medien-Hafen" it would later be, when revitalised, so for the most part, we took this as some form of perversity on Ralf's part, with his obsession with power stations and industrial landscapes, rather than any trend-setting foresight.

Isabella's space was shared not just with Ralf, but also with a very large and slightly over-friendly Alsatian dog. Ralf, as it turned out, had discovered through acquaintance with this animal that he really rather liked dogs, and the Alsatian, Getreu was its name. decided to return the affection, in rather amusing ways. Really, I think that Ralf and Treu knew that they were on some level rivals for their mistress's affections. So whenever Ralf would sit on the sofa next to his lover, Treu would appear out of nowhere, and attempt to worm his way affectionately between them, to have his belly rubbed. Which would have been fine had Getreu been a little tiny lapdog, but Getreu, who was so large he might well have been part wolf, probably weighed more than Isabella did.

He was not a bad dog or an unruly dog, and true to his name, he was faithful enough that Isabella could take him for long walks in the countryside without so much as a leash. (Though, on the contrary, just to show who was really boss, Ralf could never take Treu for walks. Treu most definitely took Ralf for walks, charging ahead at great speed and leaving Ralf dangling behind, dragged along at the end of the leash.)

So we sat, the five of us, four humans and one dog (Getreu breathing very heavily and devotedly in Ralf's ear) on white sofas dotted around Isabella's large, minimalist living space, waiting to see Power Station debut Tanzmusik and their new drummer. (Wolfgang and Emil, I later heard, had thrown their own listening party at the Berger Allee, which was considerably wilder.) Now I knew that Ralf never made much of an impact on his living spaces - I had seen him live at the Berger Allee for months without acquiring so much as a piece of furniture - but it did seem strange to me, how he seemed to have been absorbed into Isabella's apartment, not so much as a cohabitant, but as an accessory. There was more evidence of the dog's occupation - dinner bowls, a few chew toys, leashes and grooming items - than of Ralf's.

The space that Flori and I shared, to be fair, had been decorated by his father, and we had not done much to alter the sleek 60s era decor, which we both quite liked. But in terms of belongings, our possessions were mingled all over the flat, our books, our clothes, even our scraps of tools for fixing either musical instruments or computer components, jumbled together on the floor. Flori wore my T-shirts on hot days, with the sleeves rolled up; I had taken over the dungarees that he had banished from his wardrobe when he had cut off his hippie hair and started wearing suits.

But Ralf simply did not make either his presence or his personality known in that flat, no matter how long he and Isabella lived together. I wondered, and not for the first time, if Ralf even really had a personality, or if he simply camouflaged himself in the interests of those around him. His taste in electronic music, that had all come from Flori; his clothes were now all purchased by Isabella; his interest and study in architecture, I wondered if that was even his own, or if he had just been trying to impress Paul Schneider-Esleben.

But then, towards the very end of Aspekte, the cultural program, the announcer came on, and introduced these three very serious and important musicians from Düsseldorf, who went by the collective name of Power Station. The room fell silent, as even Treu stopped whimpering under Isabella's bidding.

And there were the three of them, Ralf looking very surly and very serious as he hunched over his Farfisa. To Isabella's annoyance, although she had insisted he wear his new, formal dark blazer, he was still wearing those stinky leather trousers beneath, and had on his big chunky plastic glasses, instead of his more stylish metal ones. He looked as cross as could be, glaring across at Flori with his lips tightly pursed. The camera panned across to Flori, who just looked absurdly beautiful in his black suit, his hair neatly cut, and his eyes large and blue and full of wonder at the beautifully drifting flute melody he was playing.

But the cameraman, clearly, was not interested in either Ralf or Flori, and indeed, the camera's gaze kept drifting, not over the two frontmen with their names in blue neon lights, but to the anonymous music-worker at the back, labouring nobly over his bizarre electronic contraption, with a spaghetti-junction of wires sprouting out of the back. It was almost comical, how obsessed with Wolfgang and his strange machine this camera was. Wolfgang looked good, even just sitting back there in his jeans and a black jumper, with that noble, slightly distant expression his face always took on when he was concentrating very hard. And the bizarre instrument he was playing, to be honest, was much more interesting to look at than Ralf's organ or Flori's flute. But it was like Klaus all over again, the drummer that acted like he was the star. I knew Ralf and Flori did not want to go through that again, even though Wolfgang was as self-contained and formal onstage as Klaus was showy and exhibitionist.

The program ended with Power Station playing over the credits, and Isabella and I both burst into applause. Not to be left out, Treu started up howling to express his pleasure at the performance, until Ralf took him by the collar, and scratched him behind the ears, trying to calm him.

>>It was brilliant, darling. I'm so proud of you, Ralfi<< insisted Isabella, bending over to kiss her boyfriend, though Treu did his best to intercept.

>>Yes, it was marvellous. Both of you<< I said tactfully, then decided to take the bull by the horns. >>All three of you, to be honest. I think Wolfgang is a fine addition to the group.<<

>>Hrrrrmmm<< said Ralf, sounding almost exactly like Treu when he growled at the neighbour's cats.

>>I am very satisfied with the performance<< Flori announced with a decisive nod. I knew he was of the opinion that they had been lucky to find Wolfgang.

Ralf was not convinced. >>Three people is not an adequate number to appear onstage. It looks unbalanced, don't you think?<<

>>Perhaps.<< Flori never directly contradicted Ralf, he just agreed, and then proposed the complete opposite. >>I feel the machine is as much the star of the performance, though, so Wolfgang and the machine are in balance.<<

>>I do wish Emil would still perform with us, it just feels far better, in terms of presentation, with the four of us onstage. Three is such an unbalanced number<< Ralf persisted.

>>Hmmm. Maybe.<< Flori agreed, then immediately contradicted him. >>But Emil's playing is simply not up to a professional standard, and I fear he feels he embarrasses himself when he performs with us. I will ask around and see if I can find another violin player who is not afraid of electronics.<<

What they found was another Klaus, though this one we called Klaus R to distinguish him from his predecessor, Klaus D. Klaus R was an exceptionally talented violinist, who augmented his violin (and occasionally the odd guitar) with a suite of electronic effects that had impressed Florian so mightily that he had asked him to join Power Station on the spot. To this day, I don't know why Klaus R agreed! They had nothing in common beyond an affinity for the echo unit, and were actually completely stylistically opposed in every other regard. I knew it would not work out from the moment that Flori brought him round Weber und Schneider, I think in the vague hope that we could persuade him to dress a little differently.

Because what they had was a full-on hippie, as wild and woolly as anyone that scrabbled in the mud in Forst. Klaus R had hair down to his waist and a full beard with a little point at the end that gave him the appearance of nothing so much as a fairytale wizard. And this wizard in his patched bell-bottoms and his hand-knitted jumpers looked about Weber und Schneider with a faint but unmistakable air of utter distaste. There was nothing to his liking in there, it was obvious, and even if he had put on something from our 'unisex' department (we didn't have a 'men's' department, but so many of the cool musicians of Düsseldorf wore our clothes anyway that we started offering a selection of clothes in larger sizes and more masculine cuts) he would have looked plainly ridiculous!

Flori persisted in trying to get the wizard to fit into his band, mostly because he was obsessed with the effects pedals, but also because he liked the symmetry of the names. Every now and then, Flori picked up an obsession with something completely bizarre - it had been astrology for a few months back when I first met him, then it was ESP and mental projection, but at the moment, it was a fad for the symmetry of letters that he had picked up from Merz poetry. He had this bizarre conviction that the shape of letters was as important for poetry as the sound. R and F - Ralf and Florian - were asymmetrical letters, while W and K - Wolfgang and Klaus - were symmetrical letters, the W laterally, and the K horizontally, which brought balance. (Not to mention, K and W were the initial and central consonants of Kraftwerk - the actual German word for Power Station.) 

I thought it was absolute nonsense, and told him so, but Ralf appeared to indulge him, because honestly, on some levels, I think Ralf was a little afraid of Florian. He knew that Florian was actually cleverer than him, and if Florian came up with some utter _bullshit_ , he could never be entirely sure if it were complete nonsense, like the astrology, or just something really complicated and advanced that he did not yet understand, like computer programming and quantum physics.

So Klaus R joined Power Station, against everyone's better judgement, including, I think, Klaus R himself.

And that Christmas, the band played again as a four-piece, to celebrate the release of their new single, Kohoutek-Kometenmelodie. The comet itself, to be honest, was a bit of a disappointment. It was possible to see it with the naked eye, especially when we drove out of Düsseldorf with its light pollution, to the much darker countryside. It shone in the night, a large star with a stubby glowing tail, but it was certainly nothing like the spectacular astronomical display that we had been led to expect. The single, though, was a jaunty little joyride of spacerock, which pointed the way that the group would be developing in the next year.

Early in the new year, I started hearing ugly rumours about our other Klaus, the older Klaus D. Not from Klaus D himself, of course, and not even from Michael, the former housemate and confidant that we had all lost to Forst. But from the younger Dinger brother, Thomas, who had become a regular habitué of our new shop. 

The first time Thomas walked in, I thought, my god, is that man a film star? A male model? Perhaps even a famous athlete? Because Thomas was not just handsome, as Heidi had described him, he was absolutely _beautiful_ , tall and thin, with long blond hair and cheekbones to die for. He was the kind of man that you just asked your friends "Who was that?" without even knowing that he played in a band. Thomas liked our clothes, a lot. He bought a white leather biker jacket the first time he came in. Then he came back and bought a pair of silver boots with zippers and buckles like a space-age pirate, that had to be specially made, in his size. Zaide wanted to ask him if he would model our 'unisex' collection for us, but my goodness, I could not imagine the fuss that Flori would have made. But handsome Thomas became one of the regulars in the shop, and eventually one of the 'pop stars' that the younger kids would wait to catch a glimpse of.

And Thomas, yes, was as friendly and charming as Klaus was spiky and difficult. He remembered the shop girls' names, and even flirted with them a little bit, though I suspect he may only have been after a discount. And it was him, not Michael (Michael was still enjoying some kind of honeymoon at his rural paradise of Forst) who told me how badly Klaus was going off the rails.

>>Anni has left him<< Thomas informed me as he browsed the racks. >>I think she realised he was never going to get his act together, so she's written to him saying she's finished with him, and hooked up with some Norwegian music teacher who can play the drums, but also has a real job and a salary, and they are moving in together.<<

>>Oh my god.<< I gasped. So rebellious Anni, who had once bitten a police officer, had finally joined the Establishment after all. A teacher! It was hard to imagine Anni, who had dropped out of college to take drugs and hang out with Klaus, setting up house with a teacher. >>How is Klaus taking it?<<

>>About as well as could be expected<< sighed Thomas, holding up a woman's blouse in a gauzy silver fabric against his chest. I wished, at that moment, that we'd made it in a bigger size, so that he could try it. >>He's taking about twice as much LSD as he was before - he doesn't even give his brain a chance to calm down and relax between acid trips. The other day, in the midst of a particularly wild episode, he decided he had been an Apache brave in a past life, and shaved his head. Blood everywhere, it wasn't pretty.<<

>>Can't you cut off his supply? Get people to stop selling him any more of that stuff?<< I asked.

>>The problem is, Klaus _is_ the supply. It's his main source of income these days. He's getting crazier and crazier with money, he keeps saying he's going to take out a massive loan and start a record company - he thinks if three little girls like you and Myrthe and Silke can start a successful clothing business, then he can run a record company. <<

>>He has no idea<< I sighed. It was Johannes and Myrthe, and their rock solid business sense that kept the whole thing afloat, really.

>>He honestly believes that he is the biggest rock star in Germany - or if he's not, he should be, if those stupid record companies weren't spoiling everything for him. So he wants his own. The thing that is so frustrating is, that NEW! really are starting to attract some serious attention these days<< Thomas sighed, picking up a pair of white overalls that we had customised with extra zippers and rivets and bits of suspension cable. That was definitely Klaus's style, that we were aping just a little bit. I winced, as he frowned at the garment deeply. >>We are starting to be fashionable, not just in Germany, but in England as well. Do you know who was talking about us in an interview the other day, saying that we were the best thing since sliced Bratwurst?<<

>>John Peel?<< I guessed. I knew, from Flori's teasing, that he was still very interested in the German scene, the music that he somewhat disparagingly still called Cabbage-Rock.

>>Better than that<< said Thomas proudly, raising his voice to an exaggerated stage whisper. >> _Eno_. <<

>>Eno?<< shrieked Lotte, who clearly had not been trying to overhear us, but Thomas had obviously wanted everyone in the shop - and therefore the whole Düsseldorf scene - to know. >>As in, Roxy Music Eno?<<

>>Ah, but he's left Roxy Music, you know<< said Thomas, rather self-importantly, as if we hadn't both heard the gossip from Heidi a few weeks previously. >>He is travelling the world, at the moment, looking for new musicians to collaborate with.<<

>>Eno can't leave Roxy Music!<< protested Lotte with all the fury of a bereft fangirl. >>He is 100% the best thing about that band. They are finished, without him.<<

>>I know<< called Heidi, from the DJ booth. >>How on earth are they going to perform, without Eno's alien sex appeal?<<

Thomas looked slightly confused. >>I thought Bryan Ferry was supposed to be the heart-throb in Roxy Music.<<

Lotte shook her head quickly. >>No, it's Eno. Right, girls?<<

The two shop girls, Zuzi and Ulrika, swooned in disagreement, as Zuzi loved Bryan Ferry, but Ulrika preferred Eno. To settle the matter, Heidi picked up a pin-up poster with _that_ photo of Eno, dressed in his black feather-collared space-princess outfit, pointing a guitar at the audience, and pretended to snap her teeth at it.

>>He's _gorgeous_ , he is. If he comes to Germany to work with NEW!, please, have him sent to my booth!<< It was a good thing that Emil did not hear Heidi talking like this!

As we all collapsed in giggles, Thomas persisted. >>But Bryan Ferry is the one that's dating the famous model... you know.<< He snapped his fingers as the name came to him. >>Amanda Lear.<<

>>She was born a man, you know<< said Ulrika in a knowing tone of voice.

>>No way<< said Heidi. >>That's just gossip.<<

>>But of course<< sighed Zuzi, rolling her large brown eyes. >>All of the good ones play for the other team.<< It was well known that Zuzi was nursing a gigantic and hopeless crush on Johannes' gorgeous Italian boyfriend, Fernando. The pair of shopgirls fell to checking out insalubrious scandal in a gossip magazine as Thomas walked round to the other side of the shop and tried on a pair of sunglasses that made him look like a Kosmische Robert Redford.

>>If Eno is really coming to Germany, looking for collaborators, surely, won't that persuade even Klaus to stop fucking about, and get down to work?<< I asked.

>>The problem, for once, is not actually Klaus<< sighed Thomas, trying another pair of sunglasses, and adjusting his mass of blond hair in the mirror. >>You know that Michael won't come back from Forst. We've had to start work on the next album without him.<<

>>You too, huh?<< We turned to see Myrthe descending the double-helix staircase with a resigned expression on her face. >>If he won't come back from Forst for Eno, then... well, who knows.<<

As Thomas took off his sunglasses, I saw his eyes follow Myrthe across the room with a slightly yearning expression that was apparent even to me. Oh no, I thought to myself. Oh no. Was that why Thomas came to the shop, week after week after week? Pining after your bandmate's girlfriend was a very unwise choice to be making when everyone was trying to tempt Michael back from Forst.


	54. Autobahn Electronique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by conversations with Beuys' colleague Nam-June, Jan starts to write a new research paper on the experimental 'Electronic Super-Highway'. And on the way home from a trip to Paris to visit this 'Autobahn Electronique', Power Station start composing a love-song to the more concrete style of Super-Highway.

Michael came back and played exactly one gig with NEW!, but it was patently obvious that his heart was not in it. We ran into him, the day before the gig, at a billiards bar in the Altstadt, where Emil and Ralf had gone to engage in another skirmish of their long-running friendly rivalry over pinball, pool. billiards, or whatever other game happened to be at hand. As Ralf and Emil battled, Flori engaged Michael in their typical musicians' chat, asking him how the leopard print guitar was working out, and if he was going to be playing it at the NEW! gig. But Michael wasn't the slightest bit interested in talking about NEW!; all he wanted to discuss was his new band with Moebie and Achim.

>>Our first record is coming out this month<< he told us proudly. >>It's called Musik Von Harmonia. This, by the way, is what we've decided to call our little project with Moebie and Achim. Harmonia. It's kind of a joke. You know, at every little village in rural Saxony, they have a little local church, and each little local church has a little glee club or choir, and every single one of them is called Harmonia, so you have Harmonia Bevern or Harmonia Pegestorf... well we are Harmonia Forst, the three of us.<<

>>When do we get to hear it?<< asked Ralf, leaning on his billiard cue as he still kept half an eye on the game to make sure Emil didn't cheat.

At this, Michael truly brightened. >>I can play it for you right now. I've got the tape in the car.<<

And so, as soon as the lads were finished with their game, we all trooped out to Michael's car to listen to the tape. It's funny, how competitive, and yet how incestuous that Düsseldorf music scene was - how eager they were to show off their new projects to one another. So many of those albums that I now think of as classics - Power Station and NEW!, Harmonia and Can - I heard for the first time as a newly completed mix, sitting in someone's car outside a bar in the old town.

I could already tell that Ralf, sitting up front, and paying very close attention, was impressed with the music. Since he had never fought with Michael at those horrible sessions for the second Power Station album the way that Flori had, the pair of them retained an open and honest appreciation for one another's talents. So I could see Ralf nodding along appreciatively to the music, his fingers tapping away on the dashboard in time with the complex, shuddering rhythms of Cluster's drum machines. The technical details they were discussing were completely beyond me, but I could see how pleased Michael was that Ralf seemed genuinely captivated by the music. They nodded along, and smiled appreciatively at one another, as I think that little Michael, humble as ever, knew how unimpressed Ralf was with most music, and recognised how heartfelt and genuine his appreciation was.

But the mood could not have been different, the next night at the NEW! gig. Klaus wasn't really speaking to Michael at the point (this, I thought, was hardly the way to woo him back from his other project) so it was left to Thomas to negotiate. Thomas, ever the diplomatic Dinger, was doing his best to convince Michael to return to record once more with them, though he was shifting uneasily from foot to foot as he tried to make his case. >>We are still contractually obliged to provide one more NEW! album, you know.<<

>>I know.<< Michael made a rather sour face.

>>If you don't come up with something, you know that Klaus will just write the whole thing himself<< Thomas warned. In some ways, it might have been better if he had, but Michael did not quite seem able to let go of the past, even as he was straining towards another future.

>>I'll come up with something. We'll see<< Michael promised.

The gig was tense. Klaus, almost frighteningly thin, his shaved head all growing back in tufts like a plucked chicken, stood up front in his white overalls and Thomas's silver boots, chucking himself about and shouting like he was the star of the performance, smashing at his guitar like it was a weapon. Michael, who was actually providing the guitar riffs, practically hid behind a large reel to reel tape player at the back of the stage, as if actively willing himself somewhere else. 

Thomas, who was actually a surprisingly good drummer behind his mirrored shades, and Hans, who switched back and forth between playing keyboards and pounding a second set of drums, both did their best to hold the whole thing together, but it was quite obviously hopeless. It was like watching two different bands playing at once, and not even in a good or intriguing way, like the sound experiments Can sometimes performed down in Köln. The whole thing seemed constantly on the verge of imploding and collapsing in upon itself, as the two principal members could not seem to even look at one another.

Michael stayed over in Düsseldorf, and spent a furtive night with Myrthe, which maybe did more harm than good. Because Myrthe had grown so used to his absence that she was actually more of a mess when he was present than when he was away, as it just opened up her feelings for him, messy and raw, all over again. But the next morning, she had to bury all her hopes again, as he packed up his guitars and drove straight back to Forst in his car.

Musik Von Harmonia, when I finally bought a copy, was a strange record indeed. The cover looked like the sort of cleaning-product advertisement that we used to have to design in class, like a bizarre parody of Pop Art. The music, though, was the strangest mix of Moebie's and Achim's free-form, meandering soundscapes, and Michael's floating, yearning guitar. It was a good sort of record to play while I was programming, and the computer lab was mostly where I listened to it, as Flori still was not keen on having anything by Achim in the house.

Power Station, though, I think were having some doubts about their future. I discovered from Isabella that Ralf had started applying for jobs in architectural offices. He had even done a bit of temping for Paul. Nothing fancy, just a general dogsbody, copying plans and filing applications, but enough to earn his keep, as she had refused to support him. Florian, well, Florian didn't really have to work, as his father still paid for our flat, and the combination of my small salary at Weber und Schneider and my student grants covered most of our expenses. The _Ralf und Florian_ album had sold well enough; not as well as Ruckzuck to be sure, but it was a moderate success, though all the money was ploughed back into equipment for that studio of theirs. But the next album, their fourth, would be the last in their contract with Phillips. If Phillips chose not to renew the contract, both of them would have to get proper jobs. Really, they needed another Ruckzuck.

\----------

In the Spring semester, I threw myself back into my programming with a vengeance. I had been slack over the autumn, with the opening of the shop, but Grundesbach warned me, that if I wanted to keep my place at the University, I had to come up with another paper to publish in a scientific journal. Mostly, during my time in the computer lab, I had been busy plotting equations graphically for Benoit, and though this was not enough for a co-authorship, it would certainly get me some credit. Benoit's work was mind-blowing, to use the current slang, but it was also incredibly beautiful, great feathery whirls of psychedelic imagery flowering out of a strange group of equations called the Julia Set and the Fatou Set. But the beauty of his work was sapping my confidence slightly about the worth of my own. Also, I had been sworn to secrecy, as Benoit's work was not scheduled to be completed and published until the following year. 

So I put together a different paper, inspired partly by Benoit, and our perpetual difficulties of transmitting the large datasets of the files I used to create the graphic representations of his formulas. Rather than send him the impossibly huge file of the complete image, why not just send him the bit of code which generated the image, and he could run it himself, on his own mainframe. And in fact, why stop there? Why should there not be Algorithmic Artists who, rather than turning up to a gallery with a painting or a print out, just sent a bit of code which could grow its own artwork in situ.

I could remember, back in 1968, the very first summer that I arrived in London to start art school, my class had gone to an exhibit at the ICA, called Cybernetic Serendipity. It had been all about the possibilities of computer art, and honestly, that show, combined with my own odd upbringing, set me on the path of wondering how to combine computer programming with the visual arts. Thinking back on the show, I wondered how different it would be now that technology was just beginning to catch up with the ideas that had been presented there in theoretical form. So I did some digging, and started to investigate what had happened to those original visionary artists, and how they had progressed, with the great leaps that technology had made in the 5 or 6 years since then.

In a massive stroke of good fortune, it turned out that one of the artists involved was a very good friend of Beuys, in fact the very same Nam-June he had originally rung to find out what on earth Algorithmic Morphogenesis was. Beuys mentioned my research to his friend, and arranged for us to have a long-distance telephone conversation about his further work. This artist, Mr Paik, was effusive about the concept of what he had started to call the 'electronic super-highway'. With this, he suggested that artists might do exactly that which was frustrating Benoit and I so much - exchange works of art via dedicated telecommunications networks. Had I heard of the APRANET, he asked, a system invented by the Americans to connect their euphemistically named 'defence' systems across vast distances? Could I imagine such a machine used for peaceful purposes, for the dissemination of information, and even art? It was so futuristic that it made my head spin!

I thanked Mr Paik for his time - he was very kind and suggested that if I come to the States, we should meet up for dinner, though I laughed and told him it was extremely unlikely that my research grant would take me that far - and I diverted my research in that direction. As luck would have it, in the current edition of the European Computing Journal, there was a short article about CYCLADES, the French equivalent of ARPANET, whose packet switching operator had only just gone online the previous November. I wrote and inveigled an invitation by dropping my father's name, as I knew that Power Station had some gigs coming up in France.

Power Station had by that point finally outgrown touring in the little VW Beetle, and moved to a larger van, which could carry 6 or 7 people, so I hitched a ride with them. And while Ralf and Flori and their 'music-workers', Wolfgang and Klaus R, set up their gear for a soundcheck at L'Olympia, I took the train out to Rocquencourt to a massive research facility on a scale that put Telefunken's little laboratory to shame. The graduate students who had been enlisted to show me around gawped a little to see an attractive young woman turn up in my stylish clothes - I had over the years become very grateful for a name that read as male to most Europeans - but they were friendly and gallant, and flexible in their attitudes in a way that I often found the Germans were not, once I demonstrated that I was perfectly able to code my way around a computer terminal. The language barrier was difficult at first, as they had little German, and I had even less French. But as most programming was done in something approximating English, that was the language we settled on.

Since my letters, they had brought another three servers online in remote locations, so they were quite proud to demonstrate the packet-switching of their little 'datagrams'. It was only 'online' for three hours a day, so I had come at just the right time, but it was more than enough time to understand just how revolutionary their techniques were. I could already see how my research paper was starting to take shape.

At the end of the workday, the pair of graduate students offered to take me to dinner, and they were so excited to explain their work further, that I was actually disappointed to tell them that I had to get back to Paris because my other half was giving a musical performance that evening. I think perhaps a little male ego was piqued, as there were some ostensibly flattering remarks about why was I wasting my time with a musician, when really, a woman as clever as me should be dating a research scientist. I just laughed at this, and told them that Power Station were not an ordinary band. They did not waste time with the brute stupidity of rock music; they wrote pieces about Comets and Outer Space and Rocket Science and wrote little dance tunes about the growth of Crystals.

The male egos forgotten, I think my fellow students' curiosity was now engaged, as they were now quite intrigued to see this performance. They would not hear of my taking the train back to Paris, and instead bundled me into their 2CV, to drive me to the venue. The performance was sold out, but when I explained to Flori who my new friends were, his eyes lit up, and he arranged for them to be added to the guest list, and admitted to the aftershow party, at a nearby restaurant.

It was quite a funny evening, after all, as the computer researchers were deeply smitten, both with the strange, technical instruments that Power Station utilised, and the machine-like music. Power Station, I could see, were about to gain a whole new fanbase in the French national computer research institute. And at dinner after the performance, Flori and Ralf, whose French was far better than mine, were relieved to have interesting people to talk to at the party! They loved Paris, and were grateful to have an excuse to linger.

One of the things that I knew they disliked about travelling as a musical group was being forced to speak only to other music professionals - musicians, roadies, journalists - none of whom ever seemed to share their rather arcane interests. So, to have these two computer scientists turn up, and speak to them of 'transmission control protocols' and 'data switching packets' and the problems of getting two conflicting pieces of kit - much like the ARP and the Synthi - to communicate with one another... this was a real treat to them. Spanning across three different languages, Nam-June's idea of the 'Electronic Super-Highway' soon became the _Autobahn Electronique_ , much to the everyone's amusement. Conversation at the dinner table was animated, and we all stayed much later than any of us had intended, until the bar actually closed and threw us out.

This was no big deal for the programmers, who just rolled back into their 2CV and drove back to Rocquencourt. But we now faced a 5-hour drive back to Düsseldorf, and it was well after midnight. Wolfgang was a bit put out, as he had almost succeeded in persuading a young French woman to let him stay with her, despite the language barrier, using only the international language of romance. Ralf told him that he was welcome to stay, but that he would have to find his own way back from Paris, which cooled his ardour fairly quickly.

But Klaus, Klaus had fallen asleep in the back of the van, and we could not shift him. We ended up having to pile all of the equipment around him. Ralf and Emil drew straws as to who had to drive first, as they agreed to take it in shifts to drive and sleep, two and a half hours each. Flori, with admirable effort, did offer to drive at least part of the way, but that was shot down quickly - and Wolfgang, who was a completely lightweight when it came to liquor, had been plied with too much wine by his French ladyfriend to be allowed near the wheel. His job, however, was to ride shotgun in the front seat, and keep the driver from falling asleep with his incessant chatter.

Flori, Ralf and I climbed into the back seat and collapsed, all in a pile. Ralf was asleep in minutes, drooling on my shoulder, but Flori tossed and turned, claiming that Wolfgang's inane chatter was keeping him awake.

After a few hours of this, all of us had had enough. Emil pulled into a service station near the border of France and Belgium, saying that even Wolfgang's drivel couldn't keep him awake, and Ralf took over the driving. In the back seat, we all switched places, so that Emil could have the window to lean on, with Flori in the middle, leaning on me, squished in next to the door. Flori nuzzled into me and started drooling on the other shoulder, that Ralf had so far left dry.

But in the front seat, Wolfgang's happy, giggly buzz was starting to wear off, and he was getting rather cranky. It was almost comical to see how the diminutive drummer's personality changed from happy-go-lucky to complaining-wet-blanket once his giddy drunkenness had worn off. >>Join a band, see the world<< he grumbled to himself as Ralf put the van into gear and turned onto the motorway. >>All I ever see is the arse end of theatres, after-hours joints, and endless fucking motorways.<<

>>The motorway<< Ralf explained, rather pedantically, in the tone of someone who had been talking to computer scientists all night. >>Is one of the crowning achievements of modern society. Truly, it is one of the greatest gifts that Germany has given the world.<<

>>You mean that _Hitler_ gave the world << Wolfgang replied testily.

>>This is not true<< corrected Ralf in that know-it-all voice that infuriated Wolfgang. >>The first official Motorway - our good friend the Köln-Bonn bypass, better known as the A-555 - was started in 1929, before the Nazis even came to power. It is authentically German.<<

>>Authentically German... authentically shit!<< complained Wolfgang. >>All we ever do in this band, forever and again, is drive on the motorway, and I am sick to death of it. It makes me want to puke! Drive, drive, drive on the neverending fucking motorway.<<

>>And all _you_ ever do in this band, Wolfi, is complain, complain, complain << tossed back Ralf, thrusting a leather-gloved finger towards the windscreen, and for a moment it looked like they might actually have broken out into an overt row, had Flori not intervened.

You see, Flori was shaking slightly, and I couldn't work out if he was laughing or snoring, until his voice came welling up from his chest. >>Drive, drive, drive, on the motorway...<< he chanted in a kind of sing-song voice.

In the driver's seat, Ralf started to giggle. Because, you see, in German, especially in Flori's distinct Düsseldorf accent, which rendered _Fahren_ , the German verb to drive, as _Fah'n_ , it rhymed with _Autobahn_ , the German word for Motorway, with the simplicity and directness of a child's nursery rhyme. And after all, given we had been discussing an _Autobahn Electronique_ all evening with the computer scientists, it seemed additionally amusing. All of us were so sleep deprived and exhausted, that Flori's little joke soon seemed like the funniest thing in the world, especially as it seemed to genuinely wind up little Wolfgang.

>>Stop it! I am warning you, I have had enough of motorways!<< Wolfgang protested.

Flori repeated his nursery rhyme a little louder >>Drive, drive, drive, on the motorway...<<

>>Stop it!<< insisted Wolfgang, clutching his hands over his ears.

But Ralf, with that uncanny knack he had of picking out a melody that would complement Flori, joined in, singing >>Drive, drive, drive, on the motorway<< in an almost annoyingly jaunty little tune.

>>I warn you, my friends, I am actually going to murder you, if you do not be quiet this instant...<<

But Emil had joined in, too, chanting about the motorway, and as his voice carried the main tune, Ralf risked a high, falsetto Beach Boys harmony, soaring into his upper register. >>We driiiiive... on the motorwaaaaaay...<<

I was shaking with laughter, and Wolfgang's impotent rage only seemed to make it more funny, as Flori shifted and put his arm around me. There seemed to be no question of sleeping now, so we might as well all join in the sing-song. >>We drive, drive, drive on the motorway.<<

As we sung, and Wolfgang grumbled with irritation, Ralf started to extemporise lyrics on the spot, to the same tune. >> _The road, it is a long grey strip_... <<

>>Ribbon<< suggested Emil. >>It's more poetic and it scans better.<<

>> _Grassy edges, with white bits_... << continued Ralf in his clear tenor.

>>No, no, no<< grumbled Emil. >>Hang on, let me think. How about... _White stripes, with green all round_. <<

>>Just, please... shut up about the motorway. I have a headache, and I can't take much more of this<< Wolfgang whined, though I did notice his lips had started to twitch upwards into a smile, as if he realised how ridiculous he was being.

But that just set Flori off again, wheezing into life and rumbling out in his basso profundo, >>Drive, drive, drive on the Motorway...<<

And Ralf started singing those words that would become so famous over the years. "Die Fahrbahn ist ein graues Band; Weisse Streifen, grüner Rand."

We stopped briefly at the border control between Belgium and Germany, where Ralf had our papers checked, and somehow managed to source another cup of coffee. Then he shifted into high gear as we hit the Autobahn proper. >>I love coming home to Germany. The sense of freedom, of relief, of no limits... just drive just as fast as we can now<< enthused Ralf, leaning forwards in his seat as the car picked up momentum. Just before dawn, the road was completely empty, and he really was able to push the van to drive as fast as he loved. >>Drive, drive, drive...<< he started up again, catching Flori's eye in the mirror, to restart the fun.

>>Shut up, shut up, shut up<< whimpered Wolfgang. >>My god, now I understand why we perform only instrumentals. Neither of you can sing, not a one of you can carry a tune in a bucket. Dear god, help me, perhaps there is something on the radio.<< He leaned forward, switching on the crackley AM radio and flicking down the band until he settled on a pop station that was, ironically, blasting out an old tune.

Almost as if mocking Wolfgang, the Beach Boys were singing "With the radio blasting, she goes cruising just as fast as she can now... and she'll have fun, fun, fun, till her Daddy takes the T-bird away, fun, fun, fun till her Daddy..." With their strong Californian accents and the crackle of the AM radio, it really did sound like the Beach Boys themselves were singing _Drive, drive, drive_ in German, provoking a howl of disgust from Wolfgang, who immediately snapped the radio off.

Extending his leather-gloved hand, Ralf turned the radio back on again, at least until the song was over. It was actually quite endearing the way Ralf, who always talked about _Music Concrete_ and _experimental_ _improvisation_ in interviews, was secretly a complete soft touch for this sugary bubblegum pop.  >>I love this song.<<

>>This is _terrible_ << insisted Wolfgang. >>Do you really want people to know that this is the sort of thing you like to listen to?<<

>>But I love the Beach Boys<< insisted Ralf, still barrelling at high speeds across the Western tip of Germany. >>I genuinely think that this is modern Californian folk music. They sing with such conviction and such strength about the genuine folk concerns of young Californians - cars, cruising, girls, surfing.<<

>>Because we, of course, know nothing of cars, cruising and girls in Germany<< laughed Wolfgang.

Ralf paused to think about that, his eyes getting that almost electric excited look that he got when he was about to make a real breakthrough. >>I would give my two front teeth, to be able to write songs like the Beach Boys write, but about modern Germany. Not all that sentimental nonsense they sing up in the beergardens, but genuine modern electronic folksongs about... what it is like, to be a young man living in Germany in the 1970s. The good things. The noble things. For example, the sense of speed and freedom that you get, driving on the Autobahn, with the wind in your hair and your heart racing.<<

>>Drive, drive, drive on the motorway<< sang Wolfgang, tapping a beat on the dashboard, as if he realised he was losing the argument. It really was an insanely catchy little nursery-rhyme of a tune.

>>Well, why don't we?<< said Florian, sitting up, and putting his other arm around me, encircling me. >>This is like the argument that we have had over and again... with Hans-Joachim, and then with Michael, when they went to Forst. Why don't we write folk-songs celebrating the good things that we love about modern German life, about Power-Stations and Motorways and technology?<<

The van was silent for a few minutes, as we crested the last of the low-lying hills, and caught our first sight of the Rhine, lying like a shimmering black velvet ribbon looped around the long, low-lying valley where we all lived. The lights of Köln and Düsseldorf shone like great, shimmering jewels, but just as Ralf shifted the gears back up to roar down the last stretch towards home, the first pink-golden rays of the dawn broke over the valley. It was the kind of breathtaking beauty that only really revealed itself as a reward to exhausted travellers who had stayed up all night.

Beside me, Emil stirred, gazing at the scene with all the sentimentality of his Teutonic soul, his eyes growing slightly moist at the beauty. >>Before us lies a wide valley, over which the sun shines with... with...<< His voice gave way at the possibility of even trying to describe the beauty of the pink-golden-peach coloured dawn before us.

>>With _Glitzerstrahl_ << supplied Ralf. >>That is my favourite word in the German language.<< And then he sang, in his good, clear tenor. " _Vor uns liegt ein weites Tal; Die Sonne scheint mit Glitzerstrahl_." A shiver went down my spine, as his voice leapt up the octave on the last word, like a choirboy soaring towards heaven. I had no idea that Ralf could sing like that.

For a few golden moments, the van was at peace. Even Wolfgang stopped complaining, just staring out into the dawn, as Ralf repeated both verses to the accompaniment of gently purring engine hum.

But as his voice faded away, Wolfgang turned and looked at him very intensely. Wolfgang had a very expressive face, which was very easy, even for _me_ to read, and the expression on Wolfgang's face was definitely envy. What Wolfgang envied, I would come to realise quite plainly, was Ralf's sheer musicality, his talent, his ability to pull music - and not just any music, but deceptively simple, infectiously catchy tunes - from absolutely anything. Ralf and Flori both had it, that gift, to be able to hear a snatch of sound - birdsong, a burbling brook, the hum of a tourvan's engine - and extract a melody from it. Wolfgang, to be fair, was an exceptional percussionist, or rather, he was precisely the percussionist that Power Station needed: his elegant, understated minimalism; his rock steady sense of timing; his uncanny knack of knowing the precise tempo to make any roomful of people dance. But Wolfgang could not perform that magic trick, he could not conjure a song from pure emotion and thin air. And for all his charm and looks and grace, I realised that night that the undercurrent of jealousy between Ralf and Wolfgang flowed both ways.

The fragile peace broke as we hit the Düsseldorf city limits, as the boys started to squabble over how they would dispose of the equipment piled high in the back. >>Oh come on, Ralf, just drop us at the Berger Allee, I have had enough of driving<< suggested Wolfgang.

>>That's a very good idea<< echoed Emil.

>>But the equipment<< pointed out Ralf. >>There is nowhere there to leave our equipment there; we must drive directly to Klingklang, so you can help us unload.<<

>>No, no<< protested Florian. >>Let's just lock it all in the garage at my parents' house, we can deal with it tomorrow, when we have had some sleep.<<

>>But Golzheim is still miles from home, and miles from my bed. Dear god, I miss my bed<< whined Wolfgang, who was known to be very lazy. >>My beautiful, soft warm bed, will I ever see you again, sweet bed, mistress of my dreams. I would marry my bed, if it were legal.<<

>>Look, someone make up their mind, please, as we are coming up to the Theodor-Heuss-Brücke<< announced Ralf.

>>Come on, my parents' house is just _there_. You can almost see it from here, think of how soft their beds are, taste how good their morning coffee is... << said Flori.

>>Mmm, coffee<< echoed Ralf, and that settled it for him, as he turned on his indicator for the Golzheim exit. Emil and Wolfgang groaned their disappointment as the car flew gently down from the bridge.

We turned off the motorway, and drove through the early-morning mist rising off the Rhine that seemed to turn Golzheim into a magical, glittering wonderland, all the dew sparkling on the grass and on the branches of trees. Ralf found the street, and parked up in the Schneider-Eslebens' garage, and we all piled out of the van, Wolfgang and Ralf, then Flori, Emil and myself. But as Flori carefully locked the van, we all heard a low but distinct sound emanating from within. >>Drive, drive, drive<< someone was singing softly, and I saw Ralf and Wolfgang exchange curious glances, as if wondering which of them had forgot to turn off the radio.

But then I started to laugh. >>Have you guys forgotten someone?<<

>>Oh my god... Klaus!<< cried Florian, and unlocked the back of the van, to reveal their strange, staring violin-player sitting up and mumbling gently to himself. >>Are you alright?<<

Klaus stretched like a cat, announced >>What a beautiful morning<< then climbed out of the van, and walked off, vanishing into the mist like a phantom.


	55. Eno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a famous Big Name Fan of the German music scene comes to Düsseldorf looking for musicians to collaborate with, the W&S girls take him up to Hamburg to see Michael perform with Moebie and Achim.
> 
> And Jan faces the first serious test of her relationship with Florian.

It was only by chance that I had happened to be at the Atelier on a rainy afternoon in April. Zaide wanted my opinion on a new wholesale textile manufacturer they were thinking of trying out, so I came in to discuss quotes with them, then after the meeting, got caught up in chatting with Myrthe about minor concerns of the day to day running of the company. We had moved on to various bits of gossip about our social group, when the telephone on her desk rang, from the extension from downstairs.

I picked it up, as I was going to walk through the shop on my way out anyway, and thought they just wanted some more stock from upstairs or change from the safe. >>What is it?<<

>>You better come down here<< Zuzi's voice was so high-pitched with excitement I could barely understand what she was saying.

>>Why? What's happening?<< My first thought was that there had been a break-in, or even a hold-up, as there were still isolated outbursts of Red Army Faction violence throughout West Germany.

>>Just come down here. _Now_. Trust me. << The line went dead.

>>We better go downstairs. It sounds important<< I said, and gestured for Myrthe to follow me.

But though we crept down the double-helix staircase as if expecting trouble, the shop was quiet. Too quiet, in fact; almost silent. There wasn't even a record playing, which was unusual. And in fact Heidi was standing by the tills, between Zuzi and Ulrika, and all three of them were staring off towards the other side of the shop, though there was no one there except a couple browsing a rack of silk kimonos in bold, abstract black and silver patterns.

>>What is it, what's the big deal?<< I asked, walking over towards them. >>Has the stereo blown? I'll call Peter if it needs to be rewired...<<

But Zuzi pointed towards the browsing couple, as Ulrika was still shaking slightly and unable to speak. >> _Look_. <<

I turned and looked at the couple again, but they looked like any other arty couple browsing the Altstadt. She was tall and slender and had bobbed hair and large, chunky, plastic-framed glasses, while he was short and very, very slim, and had shoulder-length blond hair that was receding at the forehead and as he turned around... OH. MY GOD.

>>That's Eno, isn't it<< I said, my voice shaking slightly. Ulrika, as if released from her trance, started letting out a very quiet high-pitched keening noise like a cat. >>Stop it, pull yourself together. Heidi, for god's sake, put a record on.<<

>>Can I put on _Here Come The Warm Jets_? << sighed Heidi. We had been playing that record over and over again in the boutique.

I thought quickly, remembering how Flori would often scurry off terrified if anyone put his music on in a public place when he didn't want to be bothered. >>Absolutely not. You don't want to scare him away. Put on something _local_. Power Station or NEW! or even Can. << It was bravado as much as local pride; I just wanted to show this famous English pop star that we in Düsseldorf had a scene to be proud of, too.

As the English star and his companion tried on hats, Heidi shuffled back to the DJ booth and scrambled around until she found something. After a few moments of silence, the steady beat and thrumming guitar of _Für Immer_ echoed across the shop. It was a good choice, though really, I would have preferred it slightly if she'd put on _Ralf und Florian_.

Across the shop, Eno's head seemed to cock to attention, as he smiled at his companion and gestured his head towards the speakers. I couldn't help but feel a wave of pride at how positively he responded to our friends' band. But after conferring for a moment, the pair of them wandered over to the register, to find five pairs of female eyes trying very hard not to stare at them.

"Do any of you sprechen Sie English?" he asked. His voice was quite high, a little flutey, and very, very posh. Zuzi and Ulrika exchanged looks, but between the pair of them they had just enough English to give prices and make change for tourists, and that was about it.

Myrthe elbowed me, and I remembered my voice. "Oh yes, I speak English."

The tall woman smiled at me, holding out a plush brown velvet beret with a lining done in one of my algorithmic leopard prints. "How much is the hat?"

"Oh no, for you, no charge" I stuttered, but the pop star smiled.

"Don't be absurd. We can certainly pay you."

I thought for a moment. "Normally 20 DM, but we'll give it to you wholesale, at 10."

They produced the higher sum without so much as an argument. I had no idea what to say, as Zuzi and Ulrika looked at me, wondering if they should put the bank note in the till, or keep it and frame it. I didn' t know what to do; just scrambling for words to try and keep this miraculous creature in the shop a moment longer.

But Eno smiled again. They were in no hurry, seeming just as keen to hang about. He pointed up towards the ceiling, where the speakers were. "I love this record so much I don't want to leave while it's playing. This is NEU! isn't it?" He pronounced the German so strangely, like he wasn't quite sure of its intonation.

"It is." I smiled as I could feel Myrthe nudging me in the back, recognising the name of her boyfriend's band. "They are friends of ours."

"Really?" His head seemed to prick up again, but I got distracted by the hollows of his cheekbones under his eyes. He really was such a strange-looking man, both fantastically beautiful but also genuinely weird-looking.

"See, I told you it was a good idea to come in here, Brian" said his companion. "You can tell by the detail, by the textiles and things, that these people have good taste. I told you, you would find a lead in here."

"I only came in to shelter from the rain" laughed Eno - Brian? Was his first name really _Brian_? It seemed totally unlike this bizarre space alien creature to have a name as suburban and pedestrian as Brian. No wonder he had had to leave Roxy Music. It would not do to have _two_ Brians in a band.

"You have an eye for textiles?" I said, feeling my own interest pricking up.

"Yes, I do a little textile design, a little costume design here and there..." she explained, but Myrthe was nudging me in the elbow again.

>>What were they saying about NEW! - were they talking about our boys?<<

>>Hush, be quiet<< I told her, wishing that she had paid better attention to learning my 'English prattle' as she had called it.

But Eno had noticed her talking about the band, and cut off his partner. "So you two do actually know NEU!? Do you know how to get hold of them by any chance? I tried writing to their record company before we came, but there was no response."

I hemmed and hawed, and finally decided to just translate for Myrthe. >>He wants to know how to get hold of them. What do I tell him? If only Thomas were here...<<

\--For gods sake, no! I am glad that he is not. You don't want him going anywhere near those maniac Dinger brothers.--

I smiled as Eno looked back and forth between us, clearly perplexed by what we were hissing at one another in Dutch. "As a matter of fact, we don't just know them, but this young woman, my friend Myrthe, is the girlfriend of Michael Rother - you know, the guitarist?"

Eno turned to her, astonished, and did a strange nod. "Oh my goodness. How lovely to meet you, Martha?" He mangled her name badly but she smiled anyway. "What a fortuitous coincidence."

"Danke" said Myrthe with a little curtsy, knowing she was being addressed, but with no idea how or what.

"Is he around? Can we meet him? I am _such_ a fan," asked Eno, almost vibrating with excitement, as if he were about to start emitting that strange high-pitched keening noise that Ulrika had been making.

Myrthe and I exchange looks. >>Is he still at Forst? Can you get him down here? For gods sake, why don't they put in a telephone.<< I asked.

>>He's not in Forst. He's in Hamburg. Harmonia are playing a gig there this weekend.<< she supplied.

I thought about the wisdom of translating on the fly, then blurted out "How long are you in town for?"

"Couple of days. Don't know, really. My girlfriend and I took the ferry over earlier this week to record an appearance on Dutch television, but I thought we were so close to the border, we might just pop over on the train, on the off chance. I'm very into German music at the moment. I think it's so futuristic, don't you?"

"You see" I tried to explain. "There isn't really a NEU! at the moment. They are having a little break. Michael has gone off to play for a while with a band called Harmonia. But they are also very good! It's the side project of Dieter Moebius and Achim Roedelius, who you might know from a group called Cluster. So if you are around at the weekend, this new band will be playing in Hamburg."

Eno and his partner exchanged looks "We're going to Hamburg, aren't we" she sighed, with a long-suffering air that sounded very familiar.

Eno just grinned. "Both NEU! and Cluster? We are definitely going to Hamburg. Do you ladies know the name of the club, at all?"

I looked at Myrthe and translated. She thought for a moment. >>I think it's called Fabrik? It's near the Altona Station, Michael told me. He did hint that I should come up...<<

I translated once more, for Eno's benefit. He thanked me profusely, and started negotiating with his girlfriend, of how to rearrange their trip to go up there. But an idea popped into my head, and I acted without thinking before the moment passed. "If you want to thank us, you can do something for us... you can sign autographs for our two employees, because they are such big fans they have been literally shocked into speechlessness."

It really was quite sweet, and Eno was so gracious about it that I was glad I asked. Because, honestly, I don't know who was more pleased about it - Zuzi and Ulrika, or Eno himself. Because although he seemed so unapproachable and remote onstage, in person, he really did seem quite lovely and even rather caring. He signed autographs for Zuzi and Ulrika, then cheekily signed Heidi's album for her, and seemed genuinely flattered and a tiny bit overcome by their adulation. Being fussed over by several fashionably dressed 'stuck-up Düsseldorf model types' (Wolfgang's disparaging phrase amused us so much, it had stuck) seemed really quite agreeable to him.

After they waved goodbye and left the shop - not forgetting the hat - Myrthe and I exchanged glances as Zuzi and Ulrika finally gave way to their swoons. >>We're going to Hamburg, too, aren't we<< I sighed, and she nodded.

>>Can we come?<< asked Ulrika.

>>No, you're watching the shop<< Myrthe said sharply, but Heidi interrupted.

>>I'll drive, if I can come?<<

It was the first and only time that I ever lied to Flori - mostly because I was so ashamed of the fact that I had talked all about NEW!, but I had completely forgotten to even mention Power Station to Eno. But I told him that it was a work trip only, that we were driving up to Hamburg to meet a new designer whose goods we were thinking of carrying, and it would be far, far too boring for him to come along. I didn't even tell Claudia that we would be up there, again, claiming to Flori that it was too short a visit and we didn't want to disturb her, but really because I did not want to risk it if Silke was there, as although Claudia had eventually got over Achim, she had never forgiven her former friend.

So around noon on Saturday, the three of us drove up to Hamburg in Heidi's little Citroën, found a parking spot, and walked in casually through the back door while the band were loading in.

>>Surprise!<< cried Myrthe, walking up to Michael and throwing her arms around him.

He did actually look delighted, putting his arms around her and kissing her. >>This is the second best surprise I've had all weekend.<<

>>Second best?<< sniffed Myrthe.

>>Well. It's not every day that you get a musical icon to sit in with your band...<< Michael gestured off towards the back of the club. And there, of course, were a small blond English pop star, and his girlfriend.

Eno saw us and waved. "Martha! How lovely to see you again."

>>You two know each other?<< stuttered Michael.

>>Yes. He came into the shop yesterday. Why do you think we came up here?<< I laughed.

>>Oh, and here I thought you girls had come to see me.<< I turned to see a woman I barely recognised, in a peasant frock, a home-made cardigan and heavy workboots, her long brown hair twisted into a braid down her back. It took me a moment, but it was her wide, doll-like, blue eyes that gave her away.

>>Silke<< I said, trying to quiet my little gasp. We exchanged air kisses, but they were cold as ice. >>Myrthe's here, and, erm...<<

>>Heidi<< said Silke, narrowing her eyes at her old rival, before I could have a chance to warn either of them. Heidi, to be fair, looked absolutely stunning, in a pink mohair jumper that showed off her beautiful figure, with a jaunty purple Weber und Schneider silk scarf wrapped around her neck. But the moment passed, and Silke finally shrugged, as if to say let bygones be bygones. >>Lovely to see you, too, Heidi. That colour always did suit you.<<

But Michael pulled me aside, with a worried look on his face. >>Jan, will you do me a huge favour? Would you please go and entertain our esteemed guests? I have done my best, as I have a bit of English, but I am worried they will be bored.<<

>>But what can I...<< I protested.

>>Please?<<

Really, I didn't want to have to do it, as I was terrified of them, but given the alternative was an unwanted 'catch-up' with Silke, I sighed deeply and complied. >>You owe me one, Rother<< I muttered as I walked towards them.

>>I owe _you_ , for asking you to sit for an hour with this international sex symbol you girls all fancy?<< he laughed.

I walked over to find them sitting at a table together; she was sketching in a small notepad, while he was perusing a book. Christ, he was even more beautiful than he had looked the previous day, with his long hair artfully arranged to escape from the brown velvet beret, wearing a clinging silk shirt that seemed deliberately designed to accentuate his tininess.

"So how are you finding Germany?" I ventured, feeling very nervous. I had worn a slightly daring silver Weber und Schneider dress, and I was feeling rather overdressed for the occasion, as I had even put on cosmetics. Who on earth was I trying to impress? Eno's girlfriend looked far more glamourous than me, just in a silk shirt that matched his, with a folksy woollen vest over the top.

>>Confusing<< said Eno in a heavy English accent, closing the book that I now realised was a German phrase book, and gesturing for me to sit opposite them.

"How long have you been here?" asked the girlfriend, putting the final touches on her sketch. I wondered if it would be gauche to just outright ask her name, this late in the game.

"Four years" I replied, wondering how on earth it had been that long.

"Does it ever start to make sense?" giggled Eno, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air.

I laughed, hoping that it was supposed to be a joke. "I don't think so, no."

"I don't suppose I can tempt you to a little drink?" he offered, his lips twisting up in a mischievous elfin smile.

But before I was tempted to say yes, his girlfriend cleared her throat. "Not so early, dear. You don't want to get sick again."

He made a face. "It's so _tedious_ being ill."

"Eno!" bellowed Roedelius across the room, lifting a heavy Korg synthesiser as if it were a child's toy. "Wollen Sie den Synthesizer oder das Mischpult zu spielen?"

Eno waved jauntily, then leaned forward to whisper. "What did he just say?"

I shrugged, as I did not understand the technical aspects of how they worked. "I think he wants to know if you want to play synth or want to play with the mixing desk? It's probably better if you just go over and show him what you want."

"Right you are" said Eno, getting up and wandering off towards the stage. It was almost comical how even little Moebie towered over him.

I turned back to the girlfriend, realising it would be now or never. "I'm Jan, by the way" I said, offering my hand.

She looked at me for a moment, surprised, then quickly put the cap back on her pen and shook. "I'm Carol. Sorry, I get so used to people wanting _him_ " she inclined her head towards the stage.

I made a wry face. "I know that feeling." She raised an elegant eyebrow at me. "My other half is also a musician. I've been so absorbed into his life and his band that I don't even get my own name any more; we're just 'FloriJan', like we're one person."

"Yet you came here without him tonight" she pointed out.

"Well, yes. Flori used to be in a band with Michael, some time ago, but he doesn't get along with... those two." I gestured towards Achim, who was trying to explain German plugs to Eno in rough sign language.

"God, musicians around the world, they're all alike. Exactly like children. Do you know, for the last six months, Ferry wouldn't even ride in a limo with us. Two years, I worked, designing stage clothes and outfits for that band, but then someone got a case of the old LSD..." She leaned in closer. "Lead Singer Disease."

"I'm so glad my boyfriend's band are instrumental, then, so we don't have to deal with that" I laughed, but then I caught sight of the sketch she had been working on. It was a panorama of the familiar docklands of Hamburg, but she had drawn the cranes so cleverly that they looked like a lace pattern. "Oh, this is beautiful. You're an artist - oh wait, you said you were a designer?"

"Thank you." She smiled graciously. "Yes. I do clothes, album covers, this and that. But as you say, it's hard not to get absorbed into your partner's work. I've been trying to strike out on my own a bit more. At the moment, I've been concentrating on ceramics. I know it sounds odd, but probably _because_ it's a million miles away from music and glam rock and all... I've been obsessed with tea pots. I was wondering if the Germans went in for kitsch tea sets, but apparently not."

"Oh god, the Germans can't make tea to save their lives. It's one of the few things I miss" I confessed.

"Not as bad as the Americans" laughed Carol.

I shrugged, as I had not yet been to America. But then I thought of something. "Oh my god. If you did their stage outfits, then... then it was you that designed..." I gestured rather foolishly around my neck. "...the feather thing!"

Carol rolled her eyes again rather extravagantly, as if this were a question she had been asked many times. If she had seemed to be starting to relax with me, she abruptly became quite guarded again now. "Yes. I designed the _feather thing_."

I felt a bit silly, but I might as well confess all. "We tried to do one ourselves - Weber und Schneider - for our Autumn / Winter '72 collection. Myrthe made us take it out, as she said it was too derivative, but I loved swanning around in it."

She suddenly seemed to understand something. "Oh! You two are designers?"

"Indeed" I nodded. "I'm the textile designer. The leopard print on your partner's hat - that's one of mine."

"Ah." Carol's face seemed to open up again. "Is all the stuff in the shop yours, then?"

"Well, most of it."

"Oh, but it's all so fun! You remind me a little bit of a friend of mine. Zandra Rhodes. English designer, she does textiles, do you know her?"

It was my turn to swoon and look a little bit starstruck. "Really? Oh my god, that is so flattering. I love her designs, but I don't feel quite so confident as she does with her use of colour. I wish I could be so bold."

"Oh, but she's a wonderfully bold person. I used to work for her, and she is exactly the same as her work. It was Zandra who told me, 'you are wasted as a dressmaker. You're so obviously talented, but it's clear that this is not where your passion lies.' She encouraged me in ceramics, gave me my first big commission, and you know what, she was right."

"I need to be hearing this" I confessed. "Because I don't know that my heart lies in textiles any more, either. Though I am lucky to have been this successful at it." It wasn't until I spoke it aloud to a stranger that I realised how true it was.

"What's your passion, then? If money and success were no object, what would you be doing?" she asked, reaching for a pack of cigarettes and lighting two without even asking if I wanted one.

I took it anyway, though I'd not smoked in years, feeling the odd headrush as the nicotine hit my bloodstream. Really, I needed a drink to be doing this. "Digital art" I explained. "Art that I do with computers."

"God, that sounds so exciting. Don't let Eno hear you. He's convinced that computers are the future." she laughed, blowing her smoke away from the table.

As if drawn by the smell of cigarettes, Eno reappeared at our elbows. "Oh, may I have one? Please?"

"You don't want to get sick again, darling. Now go away, we're talking." He actually went. But the casual way she dismissed this international pop star, it made me want to laugh. We talked for the rest of the evening, absolutely urgently, words just spilling out of us. There just seemed so much to discuss, things that I had never been able to really bring up with the other girls on the scene - even Isabella - because we were all so closely entangled that we didn't really see what was happening to us. And yet, here was someone with whom I could address, both intimately but safely, what it was _like_ to be the female half of an artsy power couple. It was always such a tricky balance to strike, the difference between being inspired by one another's work, and being _subsumed_ by a more recognisable male. We finished her pack of cigarettes, then ordered a bottle of wine to talk further.

Silke kept trying to catch my eye, but at least I had a legitimate reason to avoid her, wrapped up in conversation with Carol. We finished the first bottle of wine, and ordered a second, and were so deep in conversation that we almost didn't notice when the band went on.

Well, at least we did break for a short while to watch the band. It was so odd for me to watch, as I realised that I had never seen Michael perform with Harmonia before. How different it was to the awkward NEW! gig I had witnessed in Düsseldorf a few months earlier! Michael seemed relaxed and happy, standing up near the front of the stage, between Moebie and Achim, his eyes closed but his head erect. Moebie and Achim, together, wove their beguiling carpet of noises, building layer upon layer, as Michael just floated over the top like a seagull hanging on a thermal. 

On the far side of the stage, Eno sat with the little synthesiser and an effects unit. I wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing, but mostly he just seemed to be generating textures, strange wibbles and hums and throbbing drones that meshed in and out of what Michael was playing. Sometimes he got up, and walked over to Michael's or Moebie's set up, and started twiddling the knobs on their boxes, as if Michael was playing guitar, and Eno was playing Michael. I knew that if anyone else in the world had attempted to do that while Achim was playing, he would have taken their head off! But because it was Eno, it all somehow sounded great.

The girls, however, all stood in a little clump at the front of the stage and stared at Eno. It wasn't just Heidi, there was a whole gang of them - someone must have put the word out that an international pop star was in Hamburg for the evening. I looked at the girls, then looked at Carol, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, I don't care" she said nonchalantly. "Brian's going to do what Brian's going to do. I don't get hung up about it."

"I'm really quite lucky in this one thing, I suppose" I sighed. "In that Flori is just not really that interested in human beings. So he doesn't really chase girls. Or respond to the rare girls that chase him."

"I don't know about that, though" said Carol warily. "I think it's just like an itch for them. It's an ego thing, more than a sex thing. If it's a game they don't take very seriously, then you don't have to worry about it. It's the ones that do take it very seriously, they lose their head, and then they lose their heart. That's where the trouble is."

I looked at her very carefully. "I trust Flori" I said, finally.

"What's Flori's band? I wonder if Brian knows them."

"Power Station" I told her, wondering if that name would mean anything to them in England.

"Can't say I've heard of them, but maybe Brian has." she shrugged.

"They had a song that John Peel was playing - called Ruckzuck. You might know it if you heard it." She gestured for me to come closer, so I stepped towards her, pushing her hair out of her ear and singing the distinctive flute riff in her ear.

Recognition dawned. "Oh! Yes, that one. Brian liked that one a lot. Used to play it all the time. But it wasn't Power Station, it was... oh, Craft something or other. I remember because I liked the name, as a craftswoman. Ah, yes. Craft Work. I liked that a lot, I thought it was so clever. I wish they'd done another album."

"They've done another two albums since then" I muttered rather softly. Noticing that Carol looked slightly embarrassed, I added quickly. "Oh, I don't know. I think they might have been released in a different order in the UK. It's funny that they kept the German name in England. It's _Kraftwerk_ " I said, with an exaggerated Teutonic W. "As in Power Station, not Craft Work as in sewing. Shall we get some more wine?"

"Oh yes, let's! Oh, I'm so glad we came. This is the best night we've had on our holiday." Carol giggled, just like a little girl, and threaded her arm through mine as we walked up to the bar.

All of us ended up together at a big table, in the all-night bar section of the venue, drinking until the small hours. (Well, everyone except Heidi, who stayed relatively sober, as she would have to drive home at some point.) Silke had been talking mostly to Myrthe all evening, but she kept trying to attract my attention, even trying to sit next to me at the table, but luckily, Carol crammed in one side, and then Eno squished in on the other.

His English loosened by the alcohol and the adrenaline of the gig, Michael was now chatting away with Eno, like old friends. Eno was more than slightly high - of course a spliff was going round the table - and kept insisting that Harmonia were his new favourite band, and he wanted to work with them, like, yesterday. They kept trying to compare schedules - not that Harmonia had much of a schedule, given that they had to plan tours around the crop-growing season - but Eno was hopeless. "Oh, how about June? Oh wait, no, I've got a big gig in London. July, then? Oh shit, no I'm going to New York. Autumn? Oh no, Japan." His schedule just seemed neverending, as Achim and Moebie soon seemed to decide he was just talking shit, and moved on to other plans.

It was a very convivial evening. I had had such a lot to drink, and I felt such an affinity with Carol that I almost didn't notice when she put her hand, even so slightly intimately, on the small of my back as she leaned over to talk to Michael. But then she left it there. She and Eno seemed to catch one another's gaze, and as his eyes flickered slightly towards me, he smiled and nodded, then turned back to Heidi, who had found the English to ask him a few halting questions. Heidi, I could see, could still not believe her luck that she was sitting at a dank beerhall table with _Eno_. The Düsseldorf scene had grown quite familiar to her, but this was something very obviously new and special.

And then I felt someone touch my hair. I am, still, to this day, very funny about people touching my hair without my permission. I didn't even like it when stylists at modelling shots did it. But to my left, I felt Carol, very slowly and deliberately push my jaw-length hair out of my face, as she raised her lips so close to my ear that I could feel the moisture of her hot breath on my earlobe. The sensation was distinctly erotic, leaving me no doubt as to her intentions, when she breathed "I don't suppose you'd like to come back to our hotel with us, would you?" into my ear, making all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Almost at the same time, I became aware that a leg was being pressed against mine on the opposite side. I could feel the satin against my bare skin - a sensation I was very familiar with, from when Flori wore those orange trousers - and remembered that Eno was wearing a very tight, very form-fitting pair of black satin trousers.

It caught me so utterly off-guard that I just blurted out "I have a boyfriend back in Düsseldorf!" without properly thinking through what was being asked of me.

The mouth withdrew from my ear as she let my hair drop. As I turned, astonished, towards her, I saw Carol catch her partner's eye, and gently shake her head. The pressure from the satin-clad leg was gently withdrawn, as subtly as it had been applied.

"Oh, my new friends, it has been lovely, but really we should go" said Eno, stretching in such a way that made his form-fitting shirt catch tightly on his ribs. He was so tiny that I was almost entranced by his smallness. "We have an early train to catch tomorrow, so we must bid adieu, au revoir, whatever you Germans say..."

"Auf Wiedersehen!" bellowed Achim, climbing to his feet to engulf the small Englishman in a bear-hug, slapping him on the back heartily. Then Eno went round the table, exchanging hugs and farewells, and promises to work together again really, really soon.

Carol stood up and put on her coat, catching my eye as she tied her scarf tightly around her neck. "Are you _sure_ you won't come with us?" she asked very softly, so softly that I hoped no one else at the table heard her.

"I..." I just stared at her, feeling my head all spinning around inside. I had never been unfaithful to Flori. Not once - well, not counting that strange evening that Flori and I spent performing experiments for the amusement and general sexual education of Ralf. Sure, I had nursed an enormous crush on Beuys while taking his class, and had perhaps fantasised once or twice about what might have happened when he took my chin in his hands, had the rest of the class not been there. But I had remained chaste. I had never once even thought of going with anyone other than Flori.

But that evening, in that club in Hamburg, I felt my heart flip-flopping, because if I was ever going to cheat on Flori with anyone... well, going back to their hotel to do god knows _what_ with Carol and Eno, well that might just have tempted me.

But Eno laughed, and moved up softly behind me. "I don't think she swings that way, darling. Oh well." Wrapping his arms around my neck, he embraced me from behind, pulling my head back with an ever so slightly kinky sensation as he exposed my throat, and I felt his slim fingers touch the soft flesh there. At that moment, had my friends not been there, I would have screamed aloud, _oh yes, I swing that way, and every other way, too_ , but fear and social anxiety bound my tongue. "Tschüss," whispered Eno, his lips on my cheek, moving in such a gentle erotic motion that I wanted to melt, and then he kissed the hollow of my jaw.

As they left, I just felt kind of hollow and emptied out, but I soon became aware that everyone was staring at me. I felt my face burning with shame, especially where Eno had just kissed me.

>>Is it my imagination<< said Heidi, her eyes flashing green with jealousy. >>Or did Eno just kiss our Jan?<<

>>He did<< I said quickly. >>We will _never_ speak of it again. << I took a deep breath, feeling Silke's gaze, in particular, hot on my face. >>For you see, I am not at their hotel right now. I am still sitting here, in this bar, and I am about to drive home to my beloved Flori.<<

>>OK<< said Michael, with a very curious expression. But out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Silke was looking almost poisonous. I avoided her as best I could, and did not even look her in the eye as we all hugged goodnight.

But she shouted at Myrthe as the car pulled out of the parking lot. >>You will come to the wedding, yes? Say you will definitely come to the wedding, Myrthe?<<

>>I will do my best<< shouted Myrthe back.


	56. Motorway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eno's interest, not in his girlfriend, but in his former guitarist, lights a fire under Florian to start work on the fourth Power Station album, _Motorway_. 
> 
> In the meantime, Beuys takes on America, and Ralf grows broody.

I replayed the scene over and over a hundred times on the long drive back to Düsseldorf, with a hundred different endings, most of them unbelievably kinky, as three sets of limbs and tongues and hands went everywhere. But as I got back to Golzheim, I stripped off my daring silver dress and climbed guiltily into bed, pressing myself up against my sleeping Florian just as the sun came up.

>>Are you awake?<< I asked desperately, needing the reassurance of his love.

>>No, I am definitely asleep<< he mumbled, but then rolled over and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me against his chest. >>How was your meeting?<<

>>Ah, the meeting was not so good. But we went to a concert afterwards. We saw Eno performing.<<

>>Oh<< said Flori, his voice thick with sleep. >>That's good. I like him.<<

>>Eno kissed me<< I confessed, my voice shaking.

Flori's chest slowly started to vibrate, and for a moment, I thought he was angry, until I realised he was laughing. >>You are a very bad liar.<<

>>What if I am not lying. What if Eno, and his girlfriend, who is a very clever, very interesting textile designer, asked me to go back with them to their hotel room.<<

At last, Flori opened one silvery eye. >>Well, did you?<<

<No.<< I pressed myself against him, feeling all turned on and wound up, and desperately wanting to do _something_ with this intense lustful feeling.

>>Well, that's fine, then.<< The eye closed again, and he was asleep.

I confessed everything that next morning, the whole sorry story, even right down to meeting them at the shop the previous day. Flori sat next to me on the sofa, watching me, half bemused, half concerned.

When I was through, he looked at me very carefully. >>Would you have gone with them?<< he asked, very softly.

>>Well, I didn't. Isn't that the important part? I thought of how you might feel, if I went off to make love with another couple, so I didn't.<<

>>Hmmm<< said Flori, his upper lip curling into a wicked smile. >>It depends. If you had gone to make love with Eno and this girl, I think I would have gone along and taped it. I am sure that he makes very interesting noises.<<

I just stared at him, gobsmacked, until finally he just started to laugh.

>>I am joking, you know<< he told me, running his finger down the tip of my nose. >>So you do love me best, after all?<<

>>I love you best<< I told him, and collapsed against his chest. And finally, he conceded to address my body, and defuse all of that confused, twisted lust.

I should have known that my secret would not be safe with Heidi or with Myrthe. Because in a few days, the gossip had gone all around the small city of Düsseldorf. Eno, the fabulous English pop singer, had made a play for either Power Station's girlfriend, or NEW!'s guitarist, or both. No one I knew had the courage to confront me directly, and ask if it was true, but I saw various barmaids widen their eyes and start to whisper when I went for a drink with Flori or Ralf and Isabella. I would hear only snippets - >>did you hear?<< >>She slept with Eno! Her!<< >>No, she turned him down.<< \- but they would just make me put my nose in the air, and hold onto Flori's hand just a little bit tighter.

But the thing that annoyed Flori most about the entire incident was not actually the idea of his girlfriend going to bed with an arty English couple. It was the idea that Eno, the international pop star, had come to Düsseldorf, looking for the most new, the most modern, and the most advanced German music and German musicians to collaborate with, and he had chosen, not Power Station, but Michael and Moebie, and worst of all, Achim. That definitely irked him.

But as well as just irking him, at least it did spur him on. If it were anyone but Flori I might have been insulted that he was not bothered about Eno trying to sleep with his girlfriend, though he was bothered about Eno trying to work with his ex-guitarist. That idea lit a fire under Flori again. He rounded up Ralf, winkled him out of the architects' office where he had been temping, and roused him to start working on properly recording that nursery rhyme of an earworm they had been writing about the Motorway.

At first, they just holed themselves up in Klingklang to work on the tune, but Flori soon grew disenchanted with this method. And so Flori and Ralf started immersing themselves in the motorway, and not just any motorway, but, specifically, the A555, the very first 'Autobahn', from Köln to Bonn, which was still, at that point, the capital of West Germany. They went in Ralf's little VW, driving up and down as fast as the tiny little car would go, listening very carefully for the sounds that cars made on the road. And when they could, Flori would go round his parents' house and borrow not the large family Mercedes, but his father's little sporty coupe, with its aerodynamic design and its almost-silent engine.

So Ralf would peel on his black leather driving gloves, and race up and down the A555 at speed, with Flori almost lying flat on his seat, the tape recorder balanced on his lap, holding a microphone as close as he could to the window without being overcome by wind noise. They taped the sound of cars overtaking them. They taped the sound of racing to overtake other cars. They taped the varying sounds of motorbikes and passenger cars and HGVs. They taped what the concrete road surface sounded like in the rain, and what it sounded like in hot, dry weather. They taped it at low speeds during busy periods, in the VW, and they taped it at nerve-rattling speeds of up to 200 kph in the coupe, late at night, when it was nearly deserted. Ralf, in particular, loved pushing the Mercedes to its limits, reporting that the advanced speeds made his pulse rate quicken and his eyes dilate, focusing his attention with the same intensity as just slightly too much coffee did.

But it was Paul that put a stop to these experiments, when he received in the post a speeding ticket and a large fine saying that his car had been clocked going over 100 kph in a sleepy suburb of Bonn. Although he was a millionaire and could have sneezed the fine away, he hauled up Flori and Ralf, and made the pair of them pay, though we could ill afford it. And he confiscated Flori's spare pair of keys to the family Mercedes, too, with strict instructions to his wife and daughters not to let Flori - or that wretched boy-racer Ralf - near it, ever again.

>>But we need it for our art-project<< Flori had insisted, knowing that this was the one subject on which his father might still be amenable.

>>Florian, you are 27 years old<< his father replied haughtily. >>If you want an expensive automobile like my Mercedes, then get yourself a proper job and buy one _yourself_. <<

Flori could not afford to buy a car, as his father well knew. But cut off from his principle form of transport, he followed my lead and bought a bicycle, since he hated sitting in Düsseldorf's busy traffic on the bus down from Golzheim. (Flori never had any tolerance for boredom, or unanticipated stressful situations he could not control.) I patiently taught him how to ride in the parking lot behind our building, but he took to cycling fairly quickly. Despite being tall and thin and ungainly, all knees and elbows, with a rather poor sense of balance, or indeed, a sense of where his long limbs began or ended, cycling proved to be good for him. His scrawny legs put on muscle tone, and his co-ordination improved. Within two months, he was actually faster than me, weaving through traffic with a confidence and nerve that I lacked. And he soon traded in the rickety old rustbucket he had learned on for a racing frame similar to the one he'd bought me for my previous birthday.

But Paul's casual comment hit home, rankled, and festered. I knew that it did, from the steely determination with which Florian collected up all of his engine-noise tapes and marched them straight over to Conny Plank. Conny, by this point, had grown so successful that he was able to buy his own equipment, and was no longer tied to the commercial studio up in Hamburg. Although he had a permanent base in a converted pig-farm out in the countryside south of Köln, he had deliberately built a very mobile set-up that he could pack into the back of a truck and drive about. So they took turns; sometimes Conny came to Power Station, and sometimes Power Station went to their Mountain.

Although Ralf and Flori were naturally quite secretive about whatever they were working on while it was still in progress, Flori was clearly in a state of pitched excitement about the ways in which _Motorway_ was developing. Normally, he would listen to rough mixes on headphones, or wait until I had gone out of the flat - to the University to work on the mainframe, or to put in my twice-weekly appearance at Weber und Schneider - to play them aloud. But for once, Flori could not wait to play me the latest developments in _Motorway_ , almost as they wrote them.

It was _very_ different from their earlier material. For a start, there was the length! True, _Ruckzuck_ had been nearly eight minutes in length, and _Klingklang_ had been over seventeen, but _Klingklang_ had been several different tunes, all run together with the same drum machine pulse, rather than a single cohesive song. _Motorway_ , from the very beginning, Flori had insisted had to be twenty-two and a half minutes long. Because that, as they had timed with a stopwatch, was the average length of time it took to travel from Köln to Bonn, using this highly special 18 km stretch of road.

But when we listened to it, it never _felt_ like twenty-two minutes. Like a really good symphony, it seemed to carry its own momentum, and tell its own story, in several distinct movements, though it never deviated from that relentless mechanised beat. The beat was incredible. Some of it was the rhythm machine, and some of it was Wolfgang improvising on his electronic drum-board, but it was actually impossible to tell which was which.

It was also almost completely electronic. Well, apart from a couple of passages where Flori had overdubbed his flute, and a brief interlude of Klaus's guitar, Ralf had completely abandoned his organ and constructed every sound from those strange, otherworldly metallic synthesiser sounds. And the traffic! I don't know how they had done it, but Conny had actually taken those tapes that Florian had made of cars and motorbikes and HGVs overtaking and being overtaken by them, and woven the sounds in and out of the music. A couple of times, I nearly winced and jumped out of the way of speaker, because I honestly heard a speeding lorry headed straight for us, as a strange electronic roaring sound seemed to fly across the speakers from right to left. Stereo had always seemed like a bit of a gimmick to me; I didn't really understand why it made a difference if the snare drum was slightly to the left or the right of centre, though Flori insisted that it did. But this truly felt like a three-dimensional journey through sound. If I closed my eyes, I could feel the slight double-jolt as the two sets of car-axles juddered over the long concrete plates of the motorway.

Every time Flori came back with a new mix, they had added more. The sound of car-horns that reminded me of Ralf's jaunty, defiant little VW. A brief rain-shower in the middle that rendered the road surface so wet that I could almost hear the tyres shedding raindrops. A long, slow passage of grinding motor sounds like climbing an endless hill. A burbling organ sound like one of Philip Glass's symphonies, that sounded like the bustle and burble of finally reaching the metropolis, right at the very end. They even added the burst of static where Wolfgang turned on the radio, and started fiddling through the dials, only to hear more >>driving, driving, driving!<< And as the final touch, with that dry sense of humour so typical of Ralf, they actually taped the ignition of the petulant little VW, and recorded the sound of Ralf driving away with a jaunty toot-toot on the horn.

It took them the whole summer, slowly layering their sounds, recording and mixing and recording and remixing, and getting Conny to endlessly rework various passages and certain segments, but when it was finished, my god. I think we all knew that they had created something really quite special. If that didn't show Phillips that their group was something worth investing in, well, nothing would.

  


Though at that point, our eyes were all starting to turn to America. It was odd, because both Ralf and Florian had always resisted 'pandering to foreign markets' quite strongly. (It still rankled a little that they were not particularly interested in touring the UK, or seeing my home, though they were happy enough to tour France.) Power Station were a European band, they insisted most strenuously, and Europe, especially their little territory of 'Mitteleurop' of the Rhineland, Benelux and the Île de France, was where they wanted to concentrate their efforts.

But the first important thing that happened in 1974, was that Beuys went to America. Of course Beuys, who never did anything by half, had to make an extremely ritualistic _event_ of the journey. Doing just a simple gallery show, or a series of lectures would have been far too simplistic for Beuys. So instead, he had his friends meet him the moment he set foot on American soil, at the airport. Immediately, they wrapped him up in a blanket of protective felt, packed him off in an ambulance, and whisked him to the gallery, where he lived, for 3 days, in a small room with a wild coyote.

>>I always said Joseph was insane<< said Paul, shaking his head, when we read of his intentions in the Rheinische Post.

>>No, you always said that he was a genius<< corrected Flori, who seemed to have grasped the symbolism of the event far more intuitively.

>>Same thing, ja?<< shrugged Paul. Father and son exchanged awkward looks as if each of them recognised both in one another.

We followed it in the papers, and brief updates even made the Düsseldorf evening news, who followed their famous son with stoic bemusement. The first day, Beuys was disoriented and jet-lagged, and the coyote was standoffish and angry, baring its teeth at Beuys if he dared go near. By the second day, there was a tussle, as both coyote and man circled one another. Beuys sat, wrapped in his felt, and played the triangle to himself, a sound that seemed to entrance the coyote, who edged nearer and nearer, though it would bound away if he caught a glimpse of Beuys' glittering eyes. The tug of war became physical as well as emotional, as the Coyote seized the felt blanket in its teeth and tried to pull it off Beuys to see the man beneath, growling and showing the whites of its eyes at first, but then becoming more teasing, even playful, as the two of them wrestled like puppies. By the third day, the coyote was completely used to Beuys, and even snuggled up against him, for warmth, or just for companionship. He eventually even permitted a sort of hug in exactly the same way that Treu nuzzled up to Ralf and demanded a belly-rub, even while laughing and showing those long, white fangs that could easily rip him limb from limb.

Beuys had himself wrapped back up in the now fleabitten and toothmarked felt, and placed back in the ambulance, delivered back to the airport and flown back to Germany without ever having seen anything of New York or America except the gallery and the coyote. With typical Beuys humour, he entitled the whole event, and indeed the video documentation that was eventually made of it, " _I Like America And America Likes Me_."

The symbolism was not wasted on Ralf and Florian. The coyote was America, and the coyote was the Big Bad Wolf, the symbol of success that could eat you alive, and the coyote was Beuys' own shadow-self made manifest as his spirit animal. It was an ordeal, but an ordeal that made his name in America. But it was also the blueprint of what would happen if a successful German artist went to the States: at first they just ignored you, in ignorance and misunderstanding and fear. Then they hated you, and would tease, torment and make fun of you, trying to rip you limb from limb. And then, finally, if you could wait it out, they would love you.

So the pair of them started fishing, putting it about through their lawyers and their record company contracts, that they were interested in seeing whom the Klingklang Corporation could do business with, in the States.

Other people appeared to have been bitten by the American bug. Johannes, too, had started to express an interest in starting to expand his distribution company into the States. He had flown to New York with Fernando and had some very high-powered lunches with his contacts in the Fashion District. The amount of money sloshing around New York absolutely bowled him over, and I think maybe blinded his eyes to the risks, as they took him for a very expensive lunch (mediocre food; astonishing views) at the very tip-top of the newly opened World Trade Centre.

I was cautious, and did not want Weber und Schneider to get involved. For a start, the shop, although hugely prestigious, was already proving not to be the money-spinner we had hoped, and the company continued to lurch from crisis to triumph and back to crisis. We just did not want to take on another risky proposition quite so soon. Not to mention, I did not think we had the capital, nor the staff, to take on the kinds of huge orders that Johannes' friends had been discussing. Fortunately, though Zaide was keen and starry-eyed at the idea of America, Myrthe agreed with me and we stayed out of it.

It was a highly foolish decision in the long run; Johannes' distribution company quadrupled their turnover in six months. At the end of a year, they had started to buy up other distribution companies and wholesalers which had previously dominated them. If we had thrown our lot in with them, we could probably have avoided what misfortunes befell our company over the next year.

At the end of May, there was yet another political scandal, resulting in another election. Germany got a new Chancellor, and a new political party, the SPD, took over the from CDU. I didn't really understand a word of it, but this new party was supposed to be more left-leaning than its predecessor, which pleased Flori, but annoyed Paul. (Ralf had decided that he was essentially done with West German politics after the last scandal, and declared himself aligned with anarchism. Paul said this meant he was moving to the Right, Flori said it meant his friend was moving to the Left, and since I no longer had Michael around to explain what these terms meant in plain, basic German, I had no idea what any of them were talking about.)

Isabella and Flori discussed politics, as we sat in a restaurant one evening waiting for Ralf, who was uncharacteristically late. But as I was not a citizen, and could not vote, I felt slightly left out, as the pair of them earnestly discussed this new Chancellor.

When Ralf finally arrived, looking both a little flushed and very flustered, I turned wounded eyes towards him for inflicting this situation upon me. >>And where have you been?<<

But Ralf beamed, looking very pleased with himself indeed. >>I'm sorry I'm late. I'm just back from hospital in Krefeld.<<

>>Hospital?<< said Isabella, sounding slightly alarmed, and I felt suddenly guilty for giving him a hard time about his tardiness. >>Are you alright?<<

>>Oh, not for me<< said Ralf with a grin. >>For my sister.<<

>>Is Anke alright?<< countered Isabella, who had actually been permitted to meet Ralf's family once or twice.

>>Oh, she's fine. She's doing very well, in fact.<< His smiled widened, as we were all completely perplexed. To say that Ralf was highly secretive about his family was a bit of an understatement.

>>Then why was she in hospital?<< I prompted, because otherwise Ralf might just have let the subject drop, and we would never have found out anything.

But to my surprise, Ralf beamed, as if he could not wait to tell us. >>Because she has been having a baby! Yes, my friends. It's true, I am an uncle. I have a little baby niece.<<

>>Congratulations<< exclaimed Flori, and gestured for the waiter. >>Shall we have a bottle of Sekt to celebrate?<<

>>Yes, celebrations are certainly in order. I am so proud! She is so adorable, my little sweetie, my niece. So tiny, so perfect, with her little button nose - my sister says she has my nose - and her little tiny baby fingers. I had no idea that babies could be so small and so perfect and so... so... adorable.<<

Ralf seemed absolutely beside himself, in raptures over this baby, so much so that I had to look at him carefully to make sure that it was genuine. He had never shown the slightest inclination towards children before, in fact, as an anarchist, he had claimed to be suspicious of the 'nuclear family unit'. But perhaps it was like the dog - he had never realised he liked the idea until he had been confronted with an actual example.

>>That's charming<< said Isabella, but there was a slightly cautious tone to her voice that I didn't quite understand yet. >>Shall we get her a gift?<<

>>Yes, of course<< agreed Ralf, but his face, still, was almost gooey with an unexpected sentimentality. >>I wonder how long it will be until I can start to give her piano lessons...<<

>>It's probably a bit early if she's a newborn<< said Isabella pragmatically, but Ralf was still deeply smitten.

>>Her little tiny hands<< he repeated, with a soppy expression, looking down at his own long, thin, elegant hands. >>Such little tiny fingers, with the smallest, most miniscule fingernails you ever saw. Did you know, that babies were born with little tiny fingernails, all pink and soft? It's astonishing. No hair, no eyebrows... but little tiny fingernails, smaller than the size of a pea.<<

Isabella was starting to look more than slightly alarmed. >>Don't tell me you're getting broody, Ralfi<< she said, in a very pragmatic tone, yet still, I did not understand the source of her caution.

Ralf looked up from examining his fingernails, and gave her such a besotted gaze that I wondered if we should give them time to be alone. >>Well<< he ventured gently. >>Don't you think it would be nice to have a baby?<<

The words hung in the air for a few moments, as I saw shock register on Isabella's face for a split second, before she did her best to hide it. >>This is not exactly the right time to start talking about children, Ralf. Babies cost money. A lot of money. And after all, you don't even have a job.<<

Pulling back sharply like a rebuked puppy, Ralf's face crumpled into a pout. >>I do, as a matter of fact, have two jobs<< he pointed out. >>And this new track we have recorded... I have a very good feeling about _Motorway_. I think this may be the hit we have been looking for. Then there will be plenty of money. <<

>>Hmmmm<< said Isabella, then deftly flicked the hot potato across the table. >>I do not feel we are ready for a baby just yet, Ralf. But perhaps Jan and Florian? They have been together for a long time, maybe it is time for them to have a child.<<

At this, Ralf brightened again, grinning widely as he declared. >>Yes! To be an uncle twice over, this would be a splendid thing. How about it Flori?<<

But Florian and I turned and looked at one another in outright terror. It happened so fast I didn't even have time to hide the alarm on my face, and for a moment, I panicked, wondering if Florian would be insulted by my reluctance. But no, the alarm mirrored in his own face reassured me. We were neither of us ready to start thinking about babies.

>>I don't think so, not just yet<< said Flori quietly, but then the waiter arrived with our sparkling wine, and I was relieved to move back to the topic of Anke's baby, and not the suggestion of one of my own.

But the topic came up again, when Flori and I were alone, cycling slowly, side by side, along the moonlit Rhine back towards Golzheim. >>Did I misspeak?<< he said abruptly, apropos of nothing.

But I knew exactly what he meant, without his even having to specify. >>No. You spoke for both of us. Your situation is so unsettled right now, and I am so busy, both with the designing, and with my programming studies. It is not the right time.<<

We passed under the construction site for the new Oberkasseler Bridge in silence, the whir of our gears and the sound of our breaths echoing under the concrete, darkness claiming our conversation until we emerged into the moonlight on the other side.

>>But you do want children, some day?<< said Florian, slowing down a little to pull up even with me. His voice seemed just ever so slightly tight, so I looked over at him, and saw his face was worried.

>>Yes, I suppose I always just assumed we would, some day<< I told him, but the more I thought about it, the less sure I felt. My studies seemed to go on and on, and on top of that, there was the business of Weber und Schneider to consider. I was already feeling slightly pressurised, trying to keep up with both - at some point, I would have to choose in which direction my heart lay. The conversation with Carol had made it clear that that was not Textile Design. But could I keep up a high-powered computing career, with research trips out to CYCLADES at a moment's notice, if I was caring for a tiny baby with fingernails smaller than the size of a pea? It was already hard enough to choose between the two halves of my life; I didn't want to have to introduce a third.

Flori looked over at me, and he must have noticed that I looked torn, because he cycled closer to me, then took one hand off the handlebars and reached out to bridge the gap between us. I took his hand as I stopped pedalling, the pair of bicycles just coasting gently down the incline beside the river.

>>Some day, ja?<< he said softly. >>I don't want to wake up one day, and be 40, and realise we forgot to have children, OK?<<

I laughed aloud, and the tension was broken. >>We're busy, but we're not that busy. But let me finish school first, at least?<<

Florian grinned and squeezed my hand, before dropping it to change gears as the long slope evened off and we had to start pedalling again. >>With you looking so beautiful in the moonlight, I might not even let you finish the ride back to Golzheim.<<


	57. Who Is Driving The Car?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Motorway album is finally finished, and Emil and Jan collaborate to make the cover for it.
> 
> But although Power Station make a play to tempt back their erstwhile guitarist, Michael's life is falling apart.

My life over the next few months got even busier. That summer, after six months' research in collaboration with my friends in Rocquencourt, I had published not one, but two academic papers in respected journals, on both sides of the Atlantic. The first, which had all three of our names on it, was published in the European Journal of Information Science, a fairly intensive study on the so-called 'unreliable' datagram protocol - the first of my papers to be published in three languages! (English, which we wrote together, then French, which they translated, and German, which I translated.) It was very prestigious, and won me a lot of respect - especially for the task of getting Düsseldorf's mainframe 'online' with its French counterpart for two hours, twice a week - but it was not where my heart truly lay.

The second paper - which Benoit was kind enough to find a publisher for in the States - was inspired by my conversations with Nam-June Paik, an attempt to find an actual technical structure to support Paik's highly theoretical proposal, ' _Media Planning for the Postindustrial Society_ ' which he had just published that year. The response to my paper - _Packet-Switching Networks as a Platform for Self-Generative Algorithmic Art_ \- was not immediate. The computer science people did not understand the art terms, and the art people did not understand the computing terms. But it was a slow-burner of an idea, which slowly gathered more and more momentum as the decade wore on, and Paik's (and my) dreams of interconnected artists bound together by digital streams edged closer to reality.

Maybe if I had gone to MIT's conference in Boston to defend it, as Benoit had tried to persuade me to do, it might have had a more immediate effect. But though Flori and I discussed the idea of taking a holiday in the States so that I might attend, the reality was that we had neither the money nor the time. Benoit helpfully suggested that I apply for a grant to enable me to attend, but the problem was where? Germany thought I was a British student with a long-term residency visa, so Britain should pay for my expenses. But Britain thought they were already providing me with a travel bursary by contributing a small grant towards my studies in Germany. So my paper was published without me, and America, confronted with this strange European man (even though Jan was a common girls' name in the States, as soon as they saw "University of Düsseldorf" they, too, thought me a "Yon") with his strange connective ideas, responded in exactly the same way that Beuys' coyote had responded to him on his first day. They ignored me.

Benoit, however, was already making plans for the next conference. His research had spiralled (no pun intended) from the initial research paper into a full-scale book called _Form, Chance and Dimension_ , about his mysterious discoveries, which he was only just starting to call "Fractals". As a sweetener, he wanted me to come to his offices at IBM, and run my algorithm on their newer, faster machines, with the hope that we could make detailed enough images to create some kind of short animation, showing the endless recurrence of his elegant, spidery figures in real-time motion. If no European university was willing to pay for my plane ticket, then his research department at IBM would. However, they would want a copy of my completed programming suite.

When I told Flori about it, he frowned. >>Is it possible to copyright computer programs?<< he asked. >>And if so, you might want to do that.<<

Another incredibly poor business decision on my part. I did not copyright the original algorithm; I published it. At the time, I wasn't thinking about my own personal finances. I was thinking about what would happen if IBM got hold of it, and locked it down, and bound it to one machine, and one operating system, and charged people to access it. Even if I got a royalty from every copy sold, I thought of all the great artists and brilliant researchers like my friends in Rocquencourt who would not be able to afford the license. So I published a staggering third article in six months, establishing not my personal wealth, but my reputation as some kind of academic wunderkind. Programmers understood its implications immediately. Over the years, my algorithm and its descendants turned up _everywhere_ , from CAD/CAM applications to graphing software to Adobe Photoshop's content-aware fill. I got no money, and worse, often no credit. But it was like a child I had created and nurtured and sent off to play in the world, and I was a proud mama.

Flori didn't speak to me for a week. Paul, although he didn't entirely understand what my algorithm was even for (though his office would eventually use software based off it) gave me a bollocking anyway. Professor Grundesbach couldn't work out if I was the most altruistic person he'd ever met, or completely insane. Still, the prestige that I brought to his institution pleased him, though a donation of a new Computer Laboratory bought with my non-existent profits from the never-to-be-realised IBM license would have been even better. I was mooted for an honourary degree from the Engineering School in the spring, even though I had never properly matriculated for a formal one.

>>You will have to graduate eventually<< said Flori, as I agonised over whether accepting the honourary degree would compromise my long-term-student-visa.

>>Are you in such a hurry to marry me?<<

Flori made an odd expression that even after 4 years of living with him, I did not entirely know how to read. >>Maybe.<< But then he grinned outright. >>Perhaps I just think I should marry you before Eno tries to make off with you again.<<

That was Flori, always trying to make a joke out of everything. I tried to think about it seriously, but my head was just too full of other matters. The eternal financial chaos at the Weber und Schneider shop. Benoit's increasingly frequent demands for technical support on the graphics files I had sent him. (In 1974, the idea of a book created with computer-generated graphics and diagrams was still pretty much the stuff of science-fiction.) And of course Power Station's increasingly complex business dealings in the States. The sums of money being discussed were phenomenal, but Ralf was pig-headed about doing it, because Ralf had more to prove, as he was still smarting over his own girlfriend's insinuations that he did not have a proper job.

The Motorway album was finally finished. In addition to Motorway, they had recorded two new tracks, and done two new brushed-up versions of their greeting hymn to the Comet Kohoutek. Emil had painted a beautiful cover for it, depicting the idealised Autobahn as he imagined it, with mountains, lush greenery, and a beautiful sunburst in the background. But Power Station's love of technology, as always, was highlighted, as stately pylons marched across the landscape, and fast German cars dotted the highway - except, of course, for a loving portrait of Ralf's plucky little grey Beetle chugging up the hill in its Krefeld plates. The Beetle's breakdowns were becoming more and more frequent, and after long years of abuse, even Peter's interventions could not keep it going for much longer.

For the back cover, Emil wanted a little joke on the band - all of them were to be photographed, squished into the back of the Schneider-Esleben Mercedes, which Claudia had borrowed and delivered to us, specifically for the purpose, without her father's knowledge. At the time, there was some nonsense of Wolfgang's. One week, he said he was quitting, since he was tired of drive, drive, driving on the motorway. The next week, he said he never did quit, why it was Ralf and Flori who had not formally offered him an official position in the group. Honestly! He was living in Emil's house, he was rehearsing and recording with the band, what did he want, a gold-plated letter of employment with his name embossed on it? I did the photoshoot without him, and since Emil was still officially a member of the band (though Heidi had dumped him for the bass player from Ibliss a few months earlier, after Wolfgang dished her the dirt that our Emil was giving "special lessons" to a senior at the Rethel Gymnasium) he sat in the fourth place.

(Honestly, I don't want to say anything about the way that Emil and Wolfgang chased those girls at the Gymnasium because I just know how Emil would roll his eyes and call me a prude or a little moralist, the same way he had teased me when I didn't want to take off my bathing costume at the Schneider-Eslebens' swimming pool parties. But though he had moralistically hemmed and hawed at how Ralf and Florian had chased me when I was his student, honestly, they were only about 23 or 24 themselves, and myself, Myrthe and Silke were all 18, 19, 20. There was a slight age difference - only 5 years between Flori and I - but we were approximately the same level of maturity. After a few years together, that age difference didn't matter at all. But those girls at the Gymnasium that Wolfgang used to chase, they were 16 and 17, while Wolfgang and Emil were 27 and 28! It was not mere moral prudery that made me uncomfortable with this! It was a gap of more than a decade, and those girls in their mid teens were impressionable and highly naive!)

At the photo shoot, Ralf, his hair still long, but with his stylish metal engineer's glasses, looked nervous. Flori just looked startled. Klaus R, to be fair, I don't know why he came to the shoot, as he stopped turning up to rehearsals shortly after. He just looked completely out of place. Emil, somewhat overexcited and squished in at the end, put his face to the window like Treu on a long car trip. It was an awkward shoot, as there was not enough light, and nowhere to set up my camera, except in the front seat. I knew that I would probably have to assemble the photo in pieces from different negatives, to adequately capture the boys with their pale skin, and the dark leather of the car interior, and then Emil would carefully paint in a landscape through the back window.

>>But who's driving the car?<< I asked, when Emil told me that he was going to place a tiny version of the photo, reversed in the rear-view mirror.

>>No one's driving the car. We're parked up in the courtyard off Mintropstrasse<< grumbled Ralf, rather too literally.

>>No, I meant in the painting<< I reminded them, taking a few more photos as they jostled with their shoulders and elbows to all fit in. >>In the painting, the Mercedes is barrelling along the Motorway, but if you are all in the back, who is driving?<<

>>You are, my dear<< laughed Flori, which we all knew was a joke, as in four and a half years in Düsseldorf, I had stuck to my trusty bicycle and never learned how to drive.

>>No<< explained Emil carefully. >>You see, it's the _listener_ that is driving the car. It's highly conceptual. <<

In the end, depending on whom you ask, either Wolfgang, smelling which way the wind was blowing, decided to grace Power Station with his continued presence; or else Ralf made up his mind to keep the valuable new member of staff, and issued him a formal offer of employment and a set wage. But either way, I had to take another set of photographs of Wolfgang with completely different lighting - I did, however, persuade him to shave off the ridiculous moustache before I would take his portrait - and Emil was given the uncomfortable job of cutting out his own housemate's head, and gluing it over his own. (If only he had waited 20 years; the great-grandchild of my algorithm could have done it for him in Photoshop.) It never quite looked right, though I thought it looked worse still, when they later reissued the album, and tried to erase Wolfgang's contributions entirely.

\----------

Michael and Myrthe, to the sadness of all, did finally split up at the end of 1974. It felt like the end of an era, though the break-up just seemed to drag on forever. For nearly a year, they had limped on, in different worlds at opposite ends of West Germany. When they were apart, they were both fully convinced that after a year of living separately, the long distance thing was no longer working for them, and that they should do the decent thing and end it. In our offices at the Atelier, Myrthe told me again and again that she could not go on like this, and she was going to take the definitive step and end it. But then they would just see each other, and fall in love all over again, and the moment that they were together, they just fit together so well and got along so easily that it would open the whole thing back up again.

At last, in December, Michael came home to Düsseldorf for a few weeks to record his tracks for the third NEW! album. He and Myrthe would talk through things then, they resolved, and either make a go of it, or else end it the decent way, in person, with a proper goodbye and the best wishes for the future. But Klaus was so fractious and so difficult, and the sessions were so tense that the last thing that Michael wanted when he came home from a long day at the studio down near Köln was to have an argument with his girlfriend. Myrthe tried to be understanding and patient, but after more than a year, her patience was wearing thin. She, understandably, wanted to know what her own future was.

They talked on and off for two weeks, trying to work out a way to resolve the conundrum, but they could not see a way through. Michael, who had been so firm on the journey down that they would sort it out, lost his resolve as soon as he saw Myrthe. But this time, Myrthe stuck to her guns. They went home together to make love one last time, and then she said they would be through. But of course she only changed her mind in the morning. And then he had to go off and be shouted at by Klaus D for ten hours in the studio, feeling like he was dangling in the wind.

We ran into Michael over the Christmas break, drinking his troubles away in a one of our favourite bars on the outskirts of the Altstadt, where Flori, Ralf, Isabella and I had gone to have a quiet drink before heading out to a nightclub. Michael just looked like a wreck, his long hair unkempt and his beautiful eyes bloodshot, so we brought him into our little group and Flori tried his best to cheer the distraught guitarist up.

>>How is the band going?<< I asked, trying to keep off the sensitive subject of Myrthe.

>>Which band?<< he asked. >>NEW! is... oh god, we have been in the studio for three weeks now, and it is the worst it has ever been. I don't even want to talk about NEW! The music, well, the music is good, as it always is. But that Klaus is... that Klaus is an absolute nightmare. I don't know how much longer we can go on.<<

>>I have heard this before<< I laughed, glancing across at Flori.

>>Harmonia, though... That, I have been enjoying so much, though the album really isn't selling so much as we'd hoped.<<

>>Musik von Harmonia? The one you played us in your car?<< said Ralf, who had never had quite the personal feud that Flori had with Achim. >>We even bought a copy, we liked it so much, didn't we, Isabella? I always thought you were a highly talented musician, Michael.<< I wondered what he was up to, as Ralf rarely complimented other musicians.

>>I don't understand.<< sighed Michael. >>Because it is... oh my god, Ralf, it is so clear when I'm with Moebie and Achim, in the studio at Forst. It is calm, it is peaceful. And it is just so... _easy_ , after years of fighting and feuding and wrestling with that impossible Klaus. We get along so well together, as people, it is like paradise. And I am so proud of the music we are making, in this wonderful place, with these wonderful people. But no one seems to want to hear it.<<

>>No one except Eno?<< I said, trying to cheer him up, but that was the wrong thing to have said in front of Flori. >>Remember Eno? We are all fans of him! But Eno... Eno is _your_ fan. <<

>>Well. You should hear what we are doing now<< said Flori, whose face had darkened.

>>Oh, I'd like to.<< Michael's face lit up at the idea. >>I would really be pleased to hear what you've been working on. I loved the _Ralf und Florian_ album; I thought it was an uncommonly pretty record. <<

>>Come<< directed Flori. >>Let's go outside, we'll play it for you.<< And so we all trooped out of the bar, and around the corner to the cobbled square where Ralf's little Beetle was parked. That really was the year of popping in and out of people's cars, listening to musicians' new records. The album had only just recently come out in Germany, so we had been listening to it on Ralf's new 8-track on the drive down from Golzheim, because Ralf said that the quadraphonic mix was so lifelike that to hear it in an actual car, while driving around Düsseldorf, that would be really special indeed. The tape was still in the player, so we all climbed into the car to listen. Isabella, Flori and I climbed into the back seat, huddling together for warmth while Ralf and Michael took the front. Michael rolled a joint which he handed round as Ralf found the right place on the tape.

And for 20 minutes, we all sat there as Michael listened to Motorway, his face curious at first, then pleased, then astonished, then ever so slightly put out. >>This is our beat<< he finally observed. >>You are doing _our_ beat, our driving, motor beat. <<

Flori smirked, as he could tell that Michael was impressed. >>Well, you see, it was Power Station's beat first, so we just took it back.<<

>>I'm not cross!<< protested Michael. >>I'm just saying... you know... I mean, it's OK. It's a very beautiful, very powerful song. I just... well, I just wish I'd thought of it.<<

I stuck my head between the two front seats. >>You know that's what Ralf said, when he first heard you playing _Hallogallo_. <<

>>This is nonsense<< said Ralf petulantly. >>I never did.<<

>>You most certainly did, I heard you<< I reminded him, poking him in the ribs. Ralf grinned slyly and wriggled away.

>>You and I are not so far apart as you believe, Ralf.<< Michael was smiling now, his mood lightened by the music and probably the joint, too.

For a moment, silence drooped across the car, in the brief intermission before the tape clicked over to the second side. Flori and Ralf exchanged meaningful looks, and then Flori nodded decisively.

>>You know, Michael<< said Ralf, then cleared his throat in the same, loud, irritating way that Florian did. >>We will be touring this record soon. We are going to do a few dates in Germany, and then we hope to tour internationally. You know that we were playing with Klaus Röder on guitar, but it didn't work out, yes?<<

>>I'm not surprised<< laughed Michael. >>You guys are a million miles apart, in style. You might as well be on different planets.<<

>>But you and I, Michael, we are on the same planet<< Ralf pointed out, with a slight edge to his voice. >>We have been friends for a long time. We get along, personally as well as musically. Would you maybe like to come along with us, on this tour, and play with Power Station again?<<

As soon as he said it, I could feel the tension condensing in the car like mist. Michael's face looked genuinely torn as he tucked his long hair behind his ears. >>Yes, this is true<< he ventured. >>You and I do align, melodically and harmonically. We have a great affinity for one another, musically.<< Then he smiled that nervous Rother smile, reddening slightly in the face as he admitted >>And the money would come in useful, as I do remember you always paid well.<<

Ralf made a slightly sour face, as if money were distasteful to even mention, and waved his hand vaguely. >>Yes, this we can discuss...<<

>>You are playing with Wolfgang Flür at the moment, yes?<< Michael asked, and Ralf nodded. >>I know him well, he is a good musician, a fine drummer, and a very easy-going, relaxed person.<<

>>It is a great relief to work with Flür, especially after that maniac Dinger<< supplied Flori with the hint of a triumphant smile as he leaned back in the rear seat, draping his arms around Isabella and I, mostly for warmth, if I knew Flori.

For a long moment, Michael looked genuinely torn. I could see his eyes in the rear-view mirror as he studied us, looking back at Flori in his expensive suit, his face flushed from good wine, with his arms wrapped casually around two of the prettiest girls in Düsseldorf. And rejoining Power Station, that would mean spending a great deal more time in Düsseldorf, which meant that he could work things out with Myrthe again. I could tell that this issue weighed heavily on his mind.

>>Things are really happening for us at the moment<< said Ralf, by way of incitement. >>A German tour, a European tour, we have had offers to tour England - and please keep this hush-hush because I know how Düsseldorf likes to gossip - but it is very likely that we will be signing an American deal. We could keep you very busy for all of 1975, Michael.<<

>> _All_ of 1975? << At that Michael seemed to snap out of his trance, and I saw his face fall. >>Oh, Ralf, it is very, very tempting, but I am so sorry. I cannot commit that far in the future. Any day now, I honestly feel that Harmonia are going to catch a break. This bad luck cannot go on forever. And I am committed to that project, I am committed to Moebie and Achim. But it is very kind, and very flattering for you to offer. I hope everything goes as well as possible for you, but I must say no.<<

>>Ah well<< said Ralf, with a bit of a nervous laugh, and I felt the tension drain out of the car. >>No hard feelings; good luck to you all.<<

We all had another round of the joint, shared a bit of a laugh, and then went back inside the warmly heated club, and ordered another bottle of wine. At least Michael was smiling now, as he chatted about production techniques with Flori, which he hadn't been when we'd found him.

But by mid-January, both of Michael's situations appeared to be hopeless. He eventually walked out of the recording sessions with Conny, because Klaus was being such an arse. Even Thomas, who was normally such a gossip, refused to fill us in on the details of the final row, the next time he came in to the shop. But he did tell us that although Michael had only completed three songs, he and Klaus put them together as best they could, then recorded another three songs without him. These new songs were completely different in mood and energy, with swearing and vulgar language that Michael objected to most strenuously, but Klaus and Thomas finished the record and released it without even consulting him. This made Michael so angry he would not even be in a room with Klaus, let alone speak to him, for another ten years. To be fair, he had walked out of the sessions, so I wasn't sure what they were supposed to do, but Klaus had alienated almost everyone in Düsseldorf by this point.

The day after he walked out of the recording sessions, demoralised and just exhausted from arguing, Michael decided that he had no more fight left to give to his relationship. I heard afterwards that he and Myrthe finally made a conclusive break, and he crawled back to Forst to lick his wounds. I was sad, as I had liked Michael, a lot, he was one of my oldest friends in Düsseldorf. It seemed like our little group kept splintering further and further apart: Anni to Norway and this music teacher, Claudia to Hamburg, Silke to Achim, and now Michael going just left me feeling bereft. But Myrthe, still my oldest remaining friend in Germany, was my main concern, and it would be many, many years before I saw Michael again.


	58. The Hot-Shot American

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf and Florian sign a deal for the American rights to their music, and in the process, end up double-crossing one of their oldest collaborators.
> 
> And to prepare for their upcoming American tour, Power Station try out a fancy new image, inspired by Florian's love of vintage suits.

After the Motorway album came out in Germany, to very positive reviews, the American Deal went through. I didn't really know the details, though I remember that there was bad blood between Power Station and Conny over it, for many years. I know that the American record label asked for a 'single edit' of Motorway, so Conny cut it down, somehow, from twenty-two and a half sprawling minutes, to three. Then the Big Head Honcho American was flying over, to meet with the managers, or the producer, or Whoever It Was That Was In Charge. He didn't understand how German geography worked, so he got a cheap flight into Hamburg. Conny was quite annoyed by this, as he had moved down to Köln by this point, and anyway, he was far too busy doing this stupid 3-minute radio edit, so he told Ralf and Flori to just go to Hamburg and see what this annoying American wanted.

If my decision not to go in on Johannes' American distribution deal was unwise, and my decision to publish my algorithm for free as "share-ware" was foolhardy, my god, Conny's decision not to go to that meeting with the Hot-Shot American was almost suicidal. We drove up, the three of us, Ralf, Flori and myself (even in those days, Flori had become almost pathologically incapable of leaving Düsseldorf without his girlfriend), one of the last long-distance trips that little Beetle was capable of making. We met this American in a grubby hotel, which did not fill us with confidence, as we thought these Americans were supposed to be _loaded_.

But speaking of loaded, when he sat down at the table to negotiate with Ralf and Flori, he took of his sports jacket ( _very_ wide lapel, I noted - not even a good cut - just flashy and expensive) and we could all see that he was carrying a gun, just underneath his left armpit. I made a kind of whimpering noise that only Flori noticed, and he reached for my hand under the table. He was actually shaking - though whether it was fear over the gun, or excitement over the deal was hard to tell - and kept a tight hold of my hand while Ralf negotiated in his clipped, precise English.

Most of it went over my head - rights, publishing, percentage points, radio play - but I definitely heard in the middle there, the words "six week American tour". At first I felt a little sick, but then excited, and the thought popped into my head: Power Station could pay for me to fly to New York and present my paper at Benoit's conference! And then the battered old suitcase came out, and every thought I'd had up until that point flew out of my head.

Because the Hot Shot American - Ira was his name - opened up the battered suitcase, and the thing was _full_ of cash. I had even never seen that much actual cash in my life - and I was used to doing the Saturday night bank run with Lotte, at the boutique, so I had got used to small sacks full of Deutschemarks. This suitcase was absolutely stuffed to bursting with hundreds upon hundreds of neatly bundled bills of American currency.

For about a minute, we all stared at the money, feeling rather like we were actors in an American bank-heist film. But then Ralf cleared his throat, in his loud, ugly, distinctive gargle. Ira laughed. "Do you guys want to count it?"

"OK." Since he was closest, Ralf started to count. But then he turned quietly to Flori and I. >>How many notes are in one of these bundles?<<

>>I don't know<< I hissed.

>>It's your money, isn't it?<< Ralf snapped.

>>I'm English, not American<< I snapped back.

"There's 100 bills in each band. US Treasury bundles them up, you can trust them, even if you don't feel like you can trust me," said Ira, in that weird, high-speed patter that I would come to associate with New Yorkers. "I assure you, it's all there."

Ralf counted quickly; I couldn't keep up, but it was obvious that there were tens of thousands of dollars in the suitcase. "OK" he finally conceded. "The money is correct. Are you happy with the amendments that our lawyers made to the contracts?"

"They're included. I've highlighted them on pages 4 and 7 if you want to have a look."

Ralf, just to be totally pedantic - though that thoroughness would serve them well in the years to come - did actually check, and made a mark against each as he read it. "It looks fine, ja" he said, his voice tight, and turned to the last page. Ira's signature had already been filled in, at the top where the American company's logo was, but there were three lines at the bottom, where the Klingklang logo was. Who on earth was supposed to be the third signatory? I couldn't imagine that they intended Wolfgang to sign, and Klaus was already history by that point.

Ralf and Flori exchanged looks. A tiny subtle nod passed between them, so slight I would have missed it had I not known them for so many years. But then Flori swallowed loudly. >>Should we wait for Conny, do you think?<<

Ira flexed his muscles and rolled his shoulders like a man who had been sitting in an aeroplane seat all day, then tucked his shirt back in and patted the holster from which the gun was hanging. It was probably just one of those automatic gestures, the same way that Flori smoothed back his hair and tightened his tie when he was nervous, but it sure looked to us like he was growing bored of our shilly-shallying.

>>You know<< said Ralf, with the wavering voice of a mutineer. >>We don't actually have to get permission from Conny. He is not on the publishing.<<

>>He is the co-producer, though. We agreed to go 50/50 on production, that is the deal we struck<< pointed out Flori.

>>We could always... you know... _buy out_ Conny's share << suggested Ralf, looking lovingly at the great pile of money again.

I cleared my throat, though it was not nearly as noisy as Ralf or Flori's phlegm-trumpets. >>It is expensive to buy out a business partner. We had to pay Silke a lot of money, and we were not dealing with anywhere near the sums of cash that you guys are talking.<< As I said the word for cash - _bargeld_ \- I gestured towards the sick, insane, seductive pile of banknotes.

But it was clear Ira was losing patience with these prevaricating Germans. "Look, if you guys don't want to do the deal, I can always pack up my suitcase and take the overnight flight back to Edelweiss Airport. My colleague's got a pair of singing brothers with a synthesiser in California he wants me to take a look at..."

"No, no" said Ralf sharply. "We will sign." Taking the paper from Ira, he signed his scrawl across the first line, then printed it neatly beneath. Then he passed it to Flori, who bent down and scratched his spidery name across the second. Without a moment's pause, he picked the paper and passed it to me.

I looked at him like he was mad. >>What are you playing at?<<

"I make joke" said Flori, his face splitting open in that giant grin of relief, now that the deed was done. He turned back to Ira, handing him the document. "This is meine Frau, not another band member."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs Schneider" said Ira, who looked visibly relieved, now that the contract was in his hand. 

"Charmed, I'm sure" I said, though I did not offer to shake his hand.

"You English?" he asked, noting my accent. I nodded. "Ah, we gotta get these boys over to tour your homeland in the Fall. I got a friend over there, who will sort you out a good fee." But noting my silence, he fussed with the papers. "OK, boys. We'll just get you to sign these babies in triplicate, so you can have your own personal copies, and then we're done. You can take this puppy home with you." He patted the suitcase full of cash reassuringly. "Now don't spend it all in one place, kids. This includes your tour support, remember."

The contracts exchanged, Ralf and Flori folded up their copies and put them away in the inside pockets of their suit jackets. Then Ralf closed and fastened the suitcase, picking it up and hanging onto it so tightly I wondered if he was going to produce a pair of handcuffs and chain himself to it.

"May we take you to dinner, Herr Blackman?" asked Flori, ever the gentleman. "My sister has introduced us to some good restaurants in Hamburg..."

"Oh no, guys. I told you. I gotta fly back to the States tonight. We gotta check out these singing brothers in LA in about... oh, with the time difference, I think about 12 hours. Nice doing business with you kids. See you Stateside in April. And nice to meet you, too, Mrs Schneider."

As the Hot Shot record company guy shuffled off, a large man who had been quietly lurking in the shadows throughout the whole conversation moved us gently but firmly towards the door.

We didn't even dare to breathe until we were safely back in the VW with all of the doors locked and the windows rolled up. Only then, did Ralf put the suitcase on his knees and open it again. All of the cash was right where they had left it. Ralf made a kind of cooing noise, his face twisting into an ugly smile, and stroked the money. Then, on impulse, he picked up a wad and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket, next to the contract. Noticing Flori staring at him, he passed him a money-brick, then laughed and tossed a third into the back, towards me.

>>What are you giving this to me for?<< I demanded, not trusting this strange green money. It didn't even look real, up close.

>>I don't know, just kidding around like a scene from a Fassbinder film, I suppose<< said Ralf, that weird smile still twisting his face. I looked at the money, as seductive as it was, and handed it back. Ralf pushed it back into its place in the suitcase, though I noticed that Flori hung onto his. >>So how much did you end up paying Silke to get rid of her?<<

I bristled, not liking the ugly new tone to his voice. >>We paid her 5000 DM for her share of Weber und Schneider<< I said dispassionately, though at the time, it had seemed an unfathomably huge amount of money. Over a year of rent, it was, or a mid-range Mercedes. Maybe even the down-payment on a small house. I had heard that it had just been sucked into the commune at Forst; a new, weatherproof roof on the main house, and modern plumbing to create just one indoor washroom.

>>Do you think Conny will take this much?<< asked Ralf.

>>I have no idea<< replied Flori with a shrug. >>But probably best not to show him the suitcase of cash, first.<<

Flori asked me to go with them, down to the studio near Köln, to explain the new order of things to Conny. I refused. Obviously, I had an excuse, in that I had to go to the computer lab to set up the semi-weekly computer-call to the relay-station at Rocquencourt. But in truth, my research assistant could have done it. I just did not want to face seeing that kind, paternal mountain of a man's reaction to how coldly Ralf and Flori had cut him out of their deal, or worse, have to look into Christa's wounded, accusative eyes, telling me _I was right you know; I never trusted those spoiled, wealthy Düsseldorf boys_.

To be fair, 5000 DM was a huge amount of money in those days. It was five times what Conny had ever made off NEW!, for example. But having seen the suitcase full of cash, and knowing that Conny was, by rights, entitled to half of it, I could not help but think that they had done him wrong. Knowing Conny, he wouldn't even have taken half! He would have split it in thirds, or offered to take his split net, after their expenses for the tour had been sorted out. But it was yet another case of Flori - or now Ralf - pulling out their chequebooks and using money as a way to make their problems just _go away_.

But the boys were simply too excited with preparations for their American tour to worry about relations with Conny and Christa. With Power Station, the first point of discussion was always the topic of _how they were going to present themselves_. It wasn't that they were unconcerned the music, especially given how they were planning to transport their ungainly assortment of synthesisers across the ocean. It was more that the music simply wasn't up for the discussion. It was what it was; they did not compromise or alter it for any audience.

But the presentation, that still very much was. I had noticed, over the past few months, how carefully Ralf had started looking at Flori's clothes, and haircut, and especially his sharp suits. Ralf, indeed, had started dropping in at Weber und Schneider, and though he would never be a regular, he had started taking note of what was going on at the cutting edge of European fashion. Introductions were procured through Johannes, and Ralf made an appointment to be measured for a bespoke tailored suit, in an ultra-modern silver-grey fabric with a subtle stripe to it.

Weber und Schneider had been doing a lot of business with Johannes recently, and Johannes had returned the favour in a big way: this year, enriched by his dealings in the States, he had decided to put on an entire pavilion at Igedo, the largest fashion trade fair in all of West Germany. Buyers not just from Germany, but from all of Europe, and across the world, came scouting for the latest talent and new designs. This, as much as the Kö or the art school, had really put Düsseldorf on the map for designers. Although Johannes went regularly twice a year, we were very new to this game, and for our first appearance, Johannes had arranged for us to have not just a section in his pavilion, but a catwalk show in the arena.

So Myrthe and Zaide were once again working flat out to try to get a new collection ready in time for the trade fair. And even though I was very busy with my studies and with my work for Mandelbrot, they insisted on my presence at the Atelier. I wasn't even designing any fabrics that season, as I was simply too busy - which became rather a sore point between Zaide and I a little later on - but Myrthe insisted that I approve the fabrics that Zaide had already chosen.

Which meant that I was actually at the boutique the next time Ralf dropped by, looking for style advice. (He only ever dropped in when he knew that I was there, as he was rather afraid of Zuzi and Ulrika, who had both been known to make eyes at him.) This time, he was not alone, but had Wolfgang in tow, which was a bit of a nuisance as he pestered our girls with his come-ons, so that they never got any work done. Ralf seemed very nervous, and kept tugging at the forelock of his hair, which had passed his shoulders, and was now halfway down his back. Wolfgang had a long-suffering expression on his face, like he was being arm-twisted into something he didn't want to do, but was well aware that Ralf ultimately signed his paycheques.

>>Your hair<< blurted out Ralf, by way of introduction. >>is always immaculately cut. You and Flori, you go to the same barber, yes?<<

I nodded slowly, wondering what he was up to, as I self-consciously touched the hair I had been growing out for the past six months into a chin-length bob. Edie had retired the previous year, and moved out to the country to breed rabbits with her girlfriend. But the shop had been taken over by an elegant, lavender-quiffed middle-aged man we all knew as Sheila (I believe it had been Schiller at some point, but Sheila just suited him better) who had maintained the same atmosphere, and better yet the same prices.

>>Wolfgang and I<< announced Ralf. >>We need haircuts. We are done with being hippies. We want a new look. A new look, but also an old-fashioned look, re-invented. We want to look like an... like an electronic string quartet. Elegant. Refined. Chic.<<

I took them to Sheila's. Sheila just assumed that Ralf and Wolfgang were together, especially after Ralf bullied Wolfgang into going first so he could see what the shorter hairstyle would look like. >>Don't worry, we will have your pretty little boyfriend fixed up, nice and stylish, snip-snip<< assured Sheila, settling Wolfgang down in the chair and making a little bit of a fuss over him.

>>It's not like that<< protested Ralf, his legs tightly crossed as he flicked through a catalogue of old fashioned film stars, looking for the haircut he hoped would make him look like a 1920s film star. >>We're not _together_. <<

Wolfgang's face lit up for just a moment in a wicked grin, before he lapsed into a stellar performance calculated for maximum wind-up. >>Oh, Ralfi, how can you say this about me. And in front of your sister, as well! Your family _knows_ about us, Ralfi. They know. We do not have to hide like this. It makes me distraught when you deny me, Ralfi. Distraught! See how my heart pounds at the thought! <<

I had to put my hand over my mouth to stop from bursting out laughing, as Wolfgang was such a convincing comic actor, and never missed a chance to ham it up, especially if it involved having a little joke at Ralf's expense. Ralf fumed, and started to turn slightly red about the ears, especially as Sheila started to take sides, and commiserate with poor, mistreated Wolfgang about being forced to live in the closet. But as those ridiculous long, feathered drapes of Wolfgang's hair fell away, Sheila carefully sculpted the mass of his thick dark hair to flatter his high cheekbones and heart-shaped chin, and I remembered with a start that Wolfgang was, actually, _handsome_.

Ralf nodded carefully as the black curls gathered in a heap on the floor. >>This looks good, yes<< he said approvingly.

Wolfgang pretended to clutch his hands to his heart. >>After all these years, a compliment! Oh, my heart.<<

Ralf narrowed his eyebrows at Wolfgang, but said nothing as Sheila finished off, and brushed the clippings from Wolfgang's shoulders. Then it was Ralf's turn in the chair. >>And what is it that sir wants today?<< Ralf hopefully showed him a photo of Bruno Kastner, an unbelievably handsome film star from the silent era, but Sheila suppressed a smile, clucking his tongue. >>Mein Herr<< he said with a scolding tone. >>We have to work with what we have, not what we _wish_ we had. <<

>>Why can't I have this?<< protested Ralf. >>I mean, I know I'm not Bruno Kastner. I'm not even Conrad Veidt, but...<<

>>No, no, no<< said Sheila, taking the chapbook from him and flicking through it. >>We work _with_ your bone structure, as I am always telling your sister... <<

>>I'm _not_... << I started to protest in an outraged tone, but Wolfgang shot me a warning glance. >>...sure that what flatters my facial structure will flatter Ralf's. He has his father's jaw, unlike me.<<

>>The _same_ jaw << insisted Sheila, removing Ralf's glasses before taking out a comb and attempting to work it through Ralf's hair. >>The same cheekbones, the same eyes. The family resemblance is unmistakable. You are very like. Only the nose is different. Hers is slightly more aquiline, his slightly more retrousse.<<

Ralf and I glared at one another. I had never seen this supposed resemblance, and it was clearly not a welcome comparison to either of us.

>>But, first, let me _wash_ this! << protested Sheila, digging his fingers into the greasy mass of Ralf's mane, then he frog-marched Ralf to the back, forcing his head into the bowl of a sink. I was amazed at the difference it made. When clean, Ralf's hair was about two shades lighter than I had grown used to, and astonishingly fluffy, perhaps even a little curly. Sheila worked with his side-part, smoothing his fringe across his forehead in a gentle wave, cutting it sharply just above his ear to highlight his prominent cheekbones, then shaping the back just to the nape of his neck.

I stared, hardly believing the transformation, as Sheila finished it off with a dab of pomade to tease the fringe into a tiny kiss-curl. Although I had known Ralf for over four years now, I had never seen him with a decent haircut before. To my surprise, with a stylish trim that de-emphasised his jutting jaw and drew attention to his cheekbones, Ralf was strikingly pretty. In fact, as he smiled up at me nervously for approval, Ralf was _beautiful_.

>>My god<< I said, with a little gasp. >>Wait until Isabella sees you.<<

We met up for dinner that evening, the four of us. Flori was pleased with Ralf's transformation, nodding his approval. But Isabella was absolutely transfixed, constantly leaning over to touch him, adjusting his fringe, pushing that little kiss-curl out of his eyes, digging her fingers into this new, fluffy, beautiful version of Ralf, as if she couldn't quite believe that the ugly-duckling boyfriend she had long-sufferingly consented to date had actually turned into this handsome and debonair creature. The money, too, had brought a new air of confidence, though I knew that Isabella had not seen that suitcase full of cash. It had sat overnight, locked in the safe in Flori's father's office, and been deposited in the band's joint bank account at almost the stroke of 9 am.

Isabella confided in me later, that that night was the first time she had noticed that something had started to change in Ralf. The plump, slightly beleaguered, perpetually underachieving boy that she had fallen in love with was being sanded away by the promise of success. And she wasn't sure that she actually liked the hard young man that he was becoming.


	59. Baby Karl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Power Station make plans for their upcoming tour of the States, including hiring a baby percussionist called Karl Bartos, who Jan finds positively foetal!
> 
> And in the meantime, Jan is preparing her own trip to the States, to present her mathematical modelling graphics software at Benoit Mandlebrot's conference.

The next change to occur in Power Station was finding a replacement for Klaus R. They didn't put it quite in these words, they just said that they wanted another percussionist to fill out the rhythm section, but after playing with Wolfgang for a few months, what they really wanted was another Wolfgang. Competent, compliant, and preferably so handsome that they continued increasing their female audience as quickly as they had since Wolfgang had started being pushed to the front of promo photos. Oh, how Flori was triumphant over that, that having campaigned for so long to get Wolfgang on board over Ralf's objections! Not only was he the _right_ drummer for Power Station, but he was so perfect they now wanted a second one to match.

So Flori rang his old professor at the Robert Schumann, asking if he knew an accomplished percussionist with professional stage presence, and the ability to sight read music. The Robert Schumann sent a _schoolboy_.

Honestly, when Karl turned up at our flat, where Flori had agreed to meet him for a brief interview before proceeding to Klingklang, I took him for a delivery boy and buzzed him in without thinking. When he slouched in, in his regulation school duffel coat, and his drainpipe jeans and his plimsols, and sat on our sofa waiting for Ralf to arrive, looking at me with his bright blue eyes, I thought he could not be a day over 16! How on earth were they going to get him on the plane to America? Would they have to ask his parents' permission?

When Ralf arrived, Flori announced he was going to make coffee, and offered some to our guest. Thinking perhaps that Flori's deathly strong espresso might not be to such a young lad's taste, I suggested >>We have bitter lemon, juice or milk, if you'd prefer.<<

Karl looked at me and pursed his prominent lips, then said, in that very soft, quiet voice of his >>I'd prefer a beer, to be honest.<<

>>And just how old are you?<< I snapped, without entirely meaning to sound so aggressive.

Drawing his head back like an outraged turtle, Karl blinked at me, slightly piqued, from under his mop of thick, dark hair. >>I was born in 1952, so I am plenty old enough for a beer, _Miss_. <<

I blinked right back at him, completely astonished. I had stopped thinking of myself as a child long ago, and just considered myself a long-married woman. Did I look as positively foetal as this baby animal? >>What month?<< I demanded.

>>May<< he said, softly but defiantly.

I did a quick calculation on my fingers. >>Then you are still five months younger than me, and I will have none of this impertinence, _Master_ Karl. <<

His face split open in a wide grin as he looked up at me shyly. And as I went to fetch him a glass of beer, I realised, my god, this young Karl Bartos - for that was this baby percussionist's name - was another one as handsome as the day was long, with jutting Slavic cheekbones and a jawline as sharp as a fox. This one, unlike Ralf, could easily have passed for a Valentino or a Veidt with his cat-like dark blue eyes and his wide, almost helplessly sensual lips. Except unlike Wolfgang, this budding adonis seemed utterly unaware of his own beauty. I could only imagine what it would be like, Ralf and Flori presenting themselves onstage with their severe German image and these two young men, as beautiful as film stars under the spotlights. Since he had started singing, well on the verses of _Motorway_ at least, I knew that Ralf had come to think of himself as the focus of the band, but with these two along for the ride, he might have some stiff competition.

But Flori? Flori didn't even notice that the new arrival was handsome. He was just delighted, first and foremost that the symmetry of the consonants - W and K to balance R and F - had been preserved. And he was even more excited when he discovered that their young recruit's primary instrument was the vibraphone, one of the few traditional acoustic instruments whose sound he described as "divine", since it produced a tone so close to a pure sine wave. To make matters even more perfect, the ever-complaining Wolfgang, who had never quite been certain of his social position within the band, since Ralf and Flori were such a tight unit, met Karl, played with him a few times, and to everyone's surprise, the shy music scholar and the lusty ladies' man became fast friends. Within a few weeks, he had moved into the old spare room behind the kitchen of the flat on the Berger Allee.

Karl and Wolfgang were both, by nature, very easy going and relaxed, happy-go-lucky where Ralf and Flori were tense and intense control freaks, and what's more, they just had such a strong look of each other, that at first, people often assumed Wolfgang had brought his little brother along. (Wolfgang said he did have a brother, actually a twin, but since they were not monozygotic, they looked nothing alike. Certainly not like the calm, serene, matched set of noble percussionists that the band carefully placed in the centre of the stage, to balance out the poles of Ralf at the left and Flori at the right.) The pair of musicians had remarkably similar backgrounds and upbringings, from close-knit lower middle class families with strong German matriarchs, quite different from Flori's mad, bohemian family, and as different again from Ralf's almost fanatically conservative family.

And it was just as well that their line-up was now complete. Because _Motorway_ started being played on the radio. A lot. Obviously, we played it at our boutique, and Heidi played it in her record shop, but I started hearing it in other places. In bars. At discotheques. At the fancy bistro on Schneider-Wibbel-Gasse where we had lunch with Florian's father, much to both Flori's and Paul's surprise. In the early 70s, _Ruckzuck_ had followed us about, as it occasionally got used for incidental music on the television or on the radio. But _Motorway_ , with its calm, futuristic sheen, was starting to look like it might, actually, be bigger than _Ruckzuck_. More and more dates kept being added to their tour, even while they were still planning it. Six weeks became eight weeks as they added a tour of Canada. Eight weeks became nine weeks as they added a whole extra jaunt down the West Coast of California. So Ralf was finally going to visit the home of his beloved Beach Boys.

To prepare for the tour, and to break in this new baby percussionist, Ralf booked a gig down in Köln, and honestly half of Düsseldorf piled into cars or onto the train to go and see them perform. The hall was absolutely packed, and we heard that the local radio station would record the performance for broadcast, for those who were not lucky enough to make it inside.

If Baby Karl was nervous for his first gig with the band, he didn't show it. I had thought of him as so serious and so stiff, but as soon as he and Wolfgang sat down together, they would start to giggle and laugh like a pair of schoolboys, usually taking the piss out of Ralf. For some reason, although Florian really was at that point, probably still odder than Ralf, with his strange foibles, his overly wide grin, and his distinctive gait, for some reason the two lads seemed almost a little bit afraid of him, and left him alone. Ralf, however, they teased mercilessly, as soon as his back was turned, and sometimes even when he was in earshot!

To be fair, Ralf did perhaps take himself a little too seriously at this point, trying to position himself as the boss of the group, when everyone knew that it was Florian who was really in charge. Flori, they both called "Chef", a friendly term just meaning "boss". Ralf, they would address as "Jawoll, Geschäftsführer", in a rather joking tone, a term that basically meant "Chairman of the Board" or "Managing Director" or something a tiny bit patronising. It was intended to be friendly, though, even if Ralf didn't sometimes know how to take it. It was good-natured ribbing, but also I think Wolfgang was still quite careful in those days about exactly how far he could tease Ralf.

But the shenanigans stopped the moment that the four young men, in their fresh new haircuts and their stiff new suits, stepped out onto the stage. I had seen Power Station dozens of times, maybe even a hundred times, with an endlessly fluctuating line-up, and I thought I knew what to expect. But I have to say that the moment that Karl joined the group, and they walked out onto that stage in their sharp concert gear, something changed in them. It was like a view that had previously been wobbling and indistinct and endlessly changing, suddenly snapped, sharply, into focus. Power Station, or, as the world would come to know them, _Kraftwerk_ , had arrived.

They always walked onto the stage in the same order in which they stood: first Ralf, then Karl, then Wolfgang, then Flori. The whole performance of trooping out in single file, and standing before their gear, as alert as classical musicians, waiting for the conductor, that became part of the act. Ralf was now very self-possessed, very erect, standing with his hips sharply angled, rather than slouching over the organ like Ray Manzarek. He stared over at his bandmates with a commanding gaze, attracting their attention as he pretended to be the conductor.

Karl, oh Karl had wonderful stage presence. It really was a shock how that solemn little schoolboy came alive onstage. Although he would try to look very serious as he performed, it was like his hips were working against him, and he could never help but dance a little as he played. The others, I think, started to imitate him, doing that very stiff, slightly jerky dance as they performed. He had another of those odd electronic drum boxes that Wolfgang had made, and then behind that, he had the huge, impossible vibraphone, its silvery bars glistening in the stage lights. He would play a low counter-melody on the vibraphone, providing support to Ralf's or Florian's melodies, and it sounded so wonderful, the strange electronic tones and the chiming, melodious vibraphone blending together.

Wolfgang, oh god, it was Wolfgang's smirk that really made his performance so memorable. He stood up straight and tall in his boots, looking very noble (though really, I suspect he was trying not to lose his balance on those very high stacked heels he used to wear to make him as tall as Ralf) but then the beat would start, and his mouth would start to twitch upwards in a knowing smirk. He played those odd electronic drums so precisely and blended so perfectly with their rigid, grid-like rhythms that it became hard to remember what they had sounded like with any other drummers.

Forian, well, of course you know I always thought Florian was the most handsome man in that group. He was very tall, and very thin, and stood with his wide shoulders very straight, gazing off into the lights. I knew this was his way of steadying his nerves, as he still, after years of performing, got terrible stage nerves before every concert. He played his various flutes for half the gig, then mucked about making strange sound effects with his various effects boxes. But for this tour, he had a new toy! Peter had made him an electronic flute - an odd plexiglass tube which he played like a flute, but which triggered sounds on the synthesiser. No one had ever seen the like of it before! It looked completely futuristic and space-age, sounded like nothing I'd ever heard before, and people were completely intrigued by it.

And the music! How quickly it had developed, over the past year. They still did the occasional improvisation - Ruckzuck always raised a cheer - but Ralf was very strict about his melodies now. The four of them had gelled into a tight, single-minded musical unit like no line-up ever really had before. Not a note out of place, not a beat gone astray, it was very precise and minimal and machine-like.

But not cold and distant and emotionless like machines - quite the reverse! Karl had both an instinctive sense of rhythm, but also an incredible lightness of touch. So although Ralf and I had talked long ago about teaching machines to have imagination or teaching machines how to lie, the addition of Karl had succeded at something quite different and very special: those four young men together had taught machines how to _dance_. Heidi had been right all along; what had been missing from their music was the body. Their new songs put the body back into that cerebral, incorporeal, electronic music that had annoyed the music journalists at the Parisian festival. This was machine-music for the heart and the hips, not just the head.

While Power Station made preparations for their upcoming tour, I made preparations for my own upcoming star performance at Benoit's conference. Although there had been some desultory discussion of my accompanying Flori on tour, Ralf put his foot down. They could not afford it, and anyway, what would I do for ten weeks on the road with them, wouldn't I be bored senseless by becoming Flori's nursemaid? For once, I was in complete agreement with Ralf, though I was glad that it was him that took that line with Flori, not me.

I planned very carefully for Benoit's conference. I had already made myself very unpopular at Weber und Schneider, by insisting that I had spent quite enough of my time in preparation for Igedo, so I would be too busy preparing for Benoit's conference to attend the actual show. After all, I did not really feel that this collection was my baby any more - I had had no hand in designing it, and Zaide had selected most of the fabrics to fit her own designs. And with Silke's departure, we had stopped modelling the clothes ourselves, and gone over to the standard industry practice of hiring beautiful young women to pose wearing our work, so really there was no reason for me to be there at all.

>>What about solidarity with your colleagues<< Myrthe had insisted, but I would not be moved by appeals to sentiment. I had given Weber und Schneider enough of my time over the past few years. It was time for me to concentrate on my mathemetical work. And for this, Benoit's conference would be the perfect venue.

I wanted not just to completely dazzle and wow the assembled academic and highly technical audience with Benoit's fascinating fractals, but to show off the true capabilities of my image-processing algorithm. Animation was the kind of show-stopper we had been talking about. Obviously, I had started with the static illustrations of Saperiski Sponges and the elegant feathery protrusions of Julia Sets and Fatou Sets that I had done for Benoit. But after conferring with some film students and video artists at the Kunstakademie, I thought it would capture the audience's imagination to show these weird triangular holes and feathery fronds actually in motion, spiralling in and out so one could see, plainly, the self-symmetry at every level. The problem was, that at that point, even IBM's top of the line computers were just not _fast_ enough to do this live, at speed. It took several hours to generate just one image. But if I printed them all out in sequence, overnight for a second's worth of film, or over the course of a week for a proper animation, it was easy enough for the film students to photograph them one frame at a time and produce a beautiful little film for projection. However, really, I wanted to show it all happening _live_.

But then I thought, why not show how long it takes? The strength of my algorithm was that, unlike existing graphics programs, which mapped out every single bit of the screen, it grew them like a tree, or like the spots of a leopard. The calculations generated a basic framework fairly quickly, and then went back and refined them through layers and layers of calculations (I was still using the fundamental looping refinement method that I had first hallucinated springing forth from Flori's hands in the Creamcheese club). It would, in theory, be possible to output a snapshot of where it had got to every few minutes or so, (that would cost me speed on the University's mainframe, but IBM had computers clever enough to timeshare more than one process at once) and display the results as a work in progress, slowly refining from spindly wires into the recognisable image. This is, of course, commonplace in computer graphics now, but at the time, it was still fresh and new, and no one would have seen anything quite like it.

I realised I would have to take two suitcases on my trip - a small overnight bag with my clothes, and then another, huge, lead-lined case with my magnetic tapes and my films, with "DO NOT X-RAY; SENSITIVE SCIENTIFIC EQUIPMENT" stencilled all over it in English and German. Oh, the West Germans were sure to love that, but at least Benoit - or ultimately IBM - were paying for it to be transported in the hold of my plane.

The last preparation I made was a precaution that I was, in the end, extremely glad that I had thought of. I wrote and told Benoit, "You know, just in case, to avoid misunderstandings that are unfortunately very common in my life in Europe, I would just like to be specific that despite my androgynous name, I am actually a Female. I do not anticipate that this will cause any problems, but if the conference is very crowded, which it sounds like it will be, and it is necessary to share sleeping quarters, I would like to make sure that I share a hotel room with another Female."

Benoit wrote back with good humour. "It does not matter to me at all, but I am glad of the warning, as my wife might have been rather cross with me, if I'd carried through with my original plans of offering you a place in our suite. We will arrange for you to share a hotel room with the other young woman who will be presenting at the conference."

 _The_ other young woman, I thought to myself? I had, over the years, grown very used to being the only female in rooms - classrooms, laboratories, rehearsal studios on Mintropstrasse - full of men. (This was, I think, one of the reasons that I hung on to my tenure at the Atelier, long after my interest in couture had waned - because it was one of the few all-female environments I had ever known in my life.) But at this conference, there was to be another singular female? I was intrigued, to say the least!

In the meantime, there was Power Station to put on the plane and send off to the States. How odd that Flori and I were both preparing for such trips, but separately, rather than together. Their entire studio at Mintropstrasse had to be packed up in flight cases (again, Wolfgang, with his experience in furniture design, proved to be invaluable at designing and building such things - indeed, it was he who made me a lightweight version of the lead-lined case I needed to transport my magnetic tapes) and shipped to the Americas. Flori was fairly excited about the whole thing, but Ralf, Ralf was a mess! I never knew that a hundred thousand things could go wrong with a ten-week tour, but thankfully he vented them all at our flat, and not within the earshot of the complaint-prone and worrisome Wolfgang.

Maybe Flori and I should have discussed expectations of Fidelity during the tour. To be honest, I didn't think that I would have to. I trusted Flori implicitly. I had simply never known him to look at other women, and after the way that I'd seen him repeatedly react with fear and slight perplexment to German groupies, I just assumed that American girls would be the same. Isaballa, however, was more sanguine about the matter. She had already heard the stories of German actors and filmmakers who went to America, and found themselves swamped under a tidal wave of willing female flesh, to the detriment of their German wives or girlfriends.

>>Ralf has a weak ego, despite his arrogance<< she told me over coffee at her cinema. >>It would be different if he were one of those men who grew up accustomed to female interest and companionship, but I rather fear that he has no immunity at all to feminine flattery, and he will be completely overcome.<<

Isabella had come up with a unique solution to the quandary: she had simply informed Ralf that they were putting the relationship 'on hold' during their American tour. She felt it would have been a cruel and undermining thing to do, to break up with him on the eve of something so important to the band. But she simply didn't want the worry of Ralf's infidelity to bother her while he was away. But I think, in her heart, she knew that it was already over. He had changed since the suitcase-of-money incident, and not just in his sharp new haircut and stylish suits. (Wolfgang and Karl, too, had been issued with complementary suits for the stage, though theirs were bought off the peg on Power Station's tab, rather than ordered bespoke.) It wasn't even that she was able to compartmentalise her feelings in the way that Silke had. It was more that she was just not _into_ Ralf in quite the way that Ralf was into her.

Poor Ralf; this was forever happening to him. It just seemed to be the dynamic that he created again and again in his personal life. Maybe Silke had not been entirely off the mark, when she had teased me that he kept remaking his relationship with me over and over in the women he loved. It wasn't that they didn't love him, that they weren't fond of him. It was just that no woman could ever love him _enough_ to put up with all of his nonsense.

Isabella was sad, but she was not heartbroken. But it was really quite prescient that she did not drive him to the airport. She said she hated airport goodbyes, such an intimate, sentimental thing to do in such a public setting. So they said their goodbyes in private, and Ralf's sister Anke was conscripted to drive the VW to the airport then back to Krefeld, so as to save 10 weeks' worth of parking fees. We were to split up into two cars to drive everyone over - the four musicians, plus Emil and a new sound engineer I knew only in passing. Anke would drive Ralf's familiar Beetle and the rest of us would follow in Wolfgang's little Opel.

And then, at the very last moment, as Wolfgang was fussing about with the car, checking that everything was in order - disaster! - he somehow managed to slam his hand shut in the door. Oh, what a mess! There was blood everywhere, and little Wolfgang was just standing there with a slightly dazed and surprised expression as all of the blood drained out of his face, as if he was going into medical shock. He didn't cry or scream or anything, which was somehow more frightening than if he'd put up his usual fuss of complaining and making a scene.

I looked at the car door, spattered with blood, and I recoiled. I just thought, I'm not getting in that! And anyway, I thought honestly, they needed to take him to hospital, have him X-rayed and looked at, make sure his thumb wasn't broken. Emil, in a flash of quick-thinking, ran up to the main road and flagged down a taxi.

The taxi driver looked at Wolfgang's shocked white face, and his swollen thumb, still dripping blood, and asked >>Hospital?<<

But Wolfgang, my god, what a little trooper he proved to be, because he shook his head very slowly, and thrust his injured thumb into the pocket of that ugly checked jacket he used to wear, and said in a wavering voice, thick with pain >>No. Köln-Bonn Airport, as quick as you can. Follow that grey Beetle!<<

And that was it. No goodbye, no tearful scene with hugs and tears and endless kisses in the airport lounge. Flori and Emil just bundled Wolfgang into the taxi, and they pulled away. It all happened so quick I did not even have time to react.

>>I love you!<< I shouted at the retreating taxi,and Flori turned in the back seat and waved out the rear window, mouthing something, but I couldn't make out what. And they were gone.

I stood in the street and watched the empty space where the taxi had disappeared for a few minutes, until another car came along, and hooted at me. I stumbled to the kerb, and let myself into the flat with the spare key that Emil had left me, so I could pop in and water the plants and collect the post, and maybe even pay any final demands for bills that looked urgent. This always was the part that gets left out of rock biographies, when you read about how the musicians go on these fabulous tours of the states, and come back famous and successful and rich. They never talk about the sisters, the girlfriends, the wives, that keep things ticking over at home, water the plants, feed the cats, walk the fucking dogs. But I went in and got a bowl of warm, soapy water and a sponge and calmly went outside and washed Wolfgang's blood off the door of his car.

And then I went home and tried to get on with my life.

The flat was just as we'd left it, with the clothes Flori had decided not to take still strewn all over the bed, though obviously his musical bits and bobs and components were gone from the dining room table. But the apartment just seemed so big and cavernous and empty without Flori in it. I stopped at the entrance to shed my shoes, and nick his slippers, as he always left his right at the door, while I often forgot and left mine in the bathroom or by the bed. But of course they were gone; Flori had packed them. His bathrobe was gone. His camelhair coat - the nice, expensive new one with the fur at the collar - was gone, though the old, now-shabby one he'd worn when I'd first met him still hung by the door like a sloughed-of cocoon. I picked it up and inhaled. His scent still clung to it like a faint musk. Was I going to have to buy a bottle of Weleda and start spraying it everywhere like a cat marking its territory?

I made lunch for one - which I didn't feel much like eating - then cycled down to the Atelier, not because they needed me, but because I was _lonely_.


	60. Maxim Sainte-Cyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody knows the fashion industry is cut-throat. But are Weber und Schneider ready for the offer that their successful performance at the Igedo Trade Fair has brought them?

Odd things were afoot at the Atelier. Since Igedo, they had been not just busy, but absolutely frenetic. The show - which I was told about multiple times, with not-so-subtle insinuations that I had missed something really special - had attracted all sorts of interest in areas of the industry that had previously been uninterested in us.

But the oddest piece of gossip was about someone much closer to home. All kinds of strange rumours had been going around about Johannes since his unexpected American windfall, about which company he had been planning to gobble up next. But this rumour was one that Myrthe was able to confirm by contacting our stock holding house. Johannes had been buying up all of the available publicly traded shares in Weber und Schneider.

What on earth was he playing at? Was he planning on taking over? I mean, if he wanted more influence in the shop, he could have just asked. We would have been happy to let him have a wider role. This was just weird. Myrthe had rung the hotel where he was staying in Hamburg, but the concierge told her that he had returned home, so she left another message with Fernando asking him to ring the moment he got in.

Johannes waltzed into the shop just before closing time, leaving air kisses and little gifts for Zuzi and Ulrika before swanning upstairs, just as we were getting ready to shut up for the night.

>>Do you not know how to use a phone?<< Myrthe snorted as she showed him into her office.

>>Oh, phones are so boring, so impersonal. I thought I might see if you girls were up for a little drink at the Mata Hari, for old times' sake<< he purred.

>>Are you going to tell us what you are playing at?<< demanded Myrthe, who was not in the mood for being messed about. She was quite possibly tired with the entire male sex, since she and Michael had broken up.

>>After a drink, darling. Come on, you, too, Jan. Shall we get Zaide... no, actually I think I'll run it past the major shareholders first<< said Johannes, as if to torment us with the fact that he knew something we didn't.

We still rated first tier seats at the Mata Hari; at least that was nice. But as I sipped my Sekt, I was rapidly losing patience with Johannes. >>Come on, spill the beans.<< I demanded. >>We're not stupid, we know you've been hoovering up stock in Weber und Schneider. Are you trying to buy us out and take us over?<<

>>Oh no<< said Johannes with an innocent expression, before leaning back in his chair with an expression like the cat that got the cream. >>But I know who is. And honestly, girls, if you cared about making a killing, you'd be snapping it up yourself.<<

>>What<< said Myrthe, really quite coldly, her drink untouched on the table in front of her. Our stock price had climbed a little bit after we'd opened the shop, only to dip again after we failed to enter the deal with his distribution company, but it had been broadly level since we issued it, and we'd never had any reason to think otherwise.

>>Oh<< Johannes put his hand to his mouth as a perfect parody of surprise. >>Oops. I suppose they haven't made the official offer yet, then.<<

>>Who? What offer?<< I had grown very tired of this game, and in fact tired of the entire fashion industry, with its weird alignments and fads and politics. Mathematicians and computer programmers, they always told you exactly what they wanted or needed, straight out, without the pussy-footing.

>>Maxim Sainte-Cyr<< supplied Johannes with a cat-that-got-the-cream expression.

>>Maxim Sainte-Cyr?<< echoed Myrthe. The name was the flagship brand of one of the most well-known fashion houses in Europe, but they were high-end, couture stuff, quite removed from the hip, streetwise clothes we had been producing since Silke's departure. >>Want to buy _us_? <<

Johannes nodded slowly, sipping at his drink, as his eyes slipped round the room, checking out the waiters. >>They were very impressed with you at Igedo. _Very_ impressed. <<

>>Well, they can't. They're Nazis<< snapped Myrthe.

>>Is this some weird German thing, or...<< I ventured, always confused when the conversation took one of these turns.

>>No, this is notorious. The company originally made their money designing and manufacturing uniforms for the Nazi Stormtroopers...<<

>>Actually, I'll think you'll find it was the Luftwaffe and the SS<< supplied Johannes. >>And very sexy uniforms, they were, too.<<

>>They made their clothes with slave labour in work camps across Belgium and the Netherlands<< said Myrthe icily.

>>Old man Maxim was fined half a million DM, and banned from ever entering the clothing market ever again, at the Nuremberg Trials. The company was built again from scratch by his son in the 50s. It's legitimate, it's clean, and their money is the same colour as everyone else's<< retorted Johannes. >>They want to buy Weber und Schneider, so I am doing you a favour by pushing up the share price.<<

>>What do you mean by, want to buy us? Want to buy us out, lock stock and barrel, or want to hire us and keep us as a subsidiary, or what...?<< I stuttered.

>>I don't know. I'm just telling you what I heard. Why don't you wait for the offer and see? Oh, and tell your father-in-law, if you don't think that's ' _insider trading_ '.<< He finished his Sekt and asked if we should buy another round or ask for the cheque.

The formal offer came a few days later. It took Myrthe and I several hours just to read it, let alone decipher what it meant. Maxim Sainte-Cyr (a privately joint-owned company resident in Monaco for tax purposes, though headquartered in Belgium) wanted to buy a majority stock option in Weber und Schneider, that was, the made-to-measure couture line, and the ready-to-wear line, but also and not limited to, the branding and the right to the name. The shop, however, they had decided was a liability, and was to be hived off and disposed of how we saw fit - they suggested that we fold it into Johannes' distribution empire.

As to our roles - Myrthe, Zaide and myself, as the current owners of the stock majority - we had two options. 

Option One. Total buy out, whereby they would reimburse us for the current share price at the date of sale, plus an appropriate share of the company's assets, as decided by an independent auditor. In exchange for the cash buy-out, we would sign a noncompete clause for a period of 7 years, wherein we could neither work in the couture or textile industries, nor use the names 'Weber' or 'Schneider' or 'Weber und Schneider'. I almost laughed aloud at the idea of losing the right to use a name that wasn't even entirely mine to use, legally. What if Florian and I did marry? Would I have to call myself Jan Esleben?

Option Two. We kept smaller, non-majority stock holdings, but became salaried employees of Maxim Sainte-Cyr Ltd or GmbH or S.A. or whatever the equivalent was in the Principality of Monaco. We would no longer require a line of credit to produce each season, as we would be assigned a projected budget by MSC at the start of each year. But this financial security came at a price: all of our designs and collections, down to the last zipper, had to be approved by an agent of MSC.

The three of us stared at the proposal, realising that none of us were going home that night. Zaida got up and started to prepare some fiendishly strong Turkish coffee, as I called the pizza place around the corner and placed an order for delivery, as we settled in for the night. Although I had initially thought Myrthe would reject the proposal out of hand, she pulled out a hand-held calculator, took out our latest inventory, checked some stock price figures in that morning's copy of the paper, then started to punch away.

>>Wow.<< she said, a bit too calmly. >>That's a lot of money.<<

I took the calculator from her, and stared at the screen. It wasn't quite Ralf's suitcase full of twenty dollar bills levels of cash, but it was a hell of a lot more than the 5000 DM that we had given Silke a little over two years earlier.

>>Are you actually tempted?<< I asked, feeling my hands go clammy. Could we just sell up and walk away? Was that a _thing_ , that we could do?

>>I don't know<< confessed Myrthe, refusing to raise her eyes from the paper in front of her.

>>Are you crazy?<< said Zaide. >>This is the answer to our prayers! Never to have to worry about another payment to a supplier, or worry about paycheques bouncing... We have spent so long building up this company, building up this brand, as a really quite _cool_ thing to own, and now someone has taken notice. <<

>>Yeah, but at what price?<< I asked. >>You remember when you first came to us with those crazy, risky designs after Silke left. We said _go for it_ , and that turned out to have been the right decision to make. Can you imagine trying to run that same decision past a bunch of... bean-counters in Brussels?<<

>>They wouldn't be approaching us if they didn't like what we were doing<< protested Zaide. >>There's dozens of other design firms in Düsseldorf. We saw them at Igedo. They've got to know that our designs are the coolest, are the most fashion-forward. They'd be stupid to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.<<

>>I don't trust them<< I said. >>But that is a lot of money...<<

>>Come on, you guys!<< said Zaide in a loud, slightly irate voice. I knew what she was thinking, she was thinking how hard she had worked, for the past few years, the new kid who had to prove herself, the seamstress who had worked her way up to production manager to designer, and yet she was still only entitled to half of what Myrthe or I were? It wasn't fair. But I knew from the calm way that Ralf and Flori had cut out Conny, that business was not fair.

Myrthe turned and fixed me with a penetrating stare. >>You want out, don't you?<<

>>I didn't say that!<< I protested.

>>Come on, Jan, we know you do. I knew when you sacked off Igedo that your heart just isn't in it any more - hell, I've known for some time. You've been phoning it in. You turn up maybe two days a week, and when you do, you're never up here in the office. You're always down in the shop, 'doing inventory' like we don't pay Zuzi and Ulrika a standard wage to do that.<<

>>I like to know what the kids are wearing<< I shrugged. >>It helps my designs.<<

>> _What_ designs? << asked Zaide, with uncharacteristic bluntness. >>Look, I'm not being funny, but you're supposed to be our textiles designer, and you've been designing textiles less and less, and ordering them from wholesalers more and more over the past year. You didn't have one design in the Igedo show. Not _one_. Did you think we hadn't noticed? <<

>>That's not true<< I protested. >>I still... design. I did a retro-50s lipstick and portable record player print the other week. Just not in time for Igedo. And these days, I just send off the designs to a factory to be printed professionally instead of doing it all laboriously by hand with the Jacquard Looms, so I don't need to be here as much.<<

>>The Jacquard Looms<< snorted Zaide. >>When was the last time you actually went up, into that attic, with the looms?<<

>>I...<< I had to stop and think. It had been before we had refurbished the flat and opened the shop, since it was when Michael and Myrthe were still living up there. Nearly two years. _Scheisse_.

>>Yeah, you wouldn't know. Because we have had those hulking great machines mouldering against the back wall for two years, to make room for the bulk cutting tools we brought in for leather-working. So maybe you should take the money and get out, because I don't actually know what it is you _do_ here any more. << I had no idea that Zaide had been carrying so much resentment around, and I felt a pang of guilt at how little attention I'd paid to anything beyond my own desk in the design room. It was true; I had not so much as touched a loom since 1973.

>>OK, let's stop going for each others' throats and take a deep breath<< suggested Myrthe.

>>I don't actually want to sell out and go<< I finally offered. >>I just don't think that getting into bed with Maxim Sainte-Cyr is the right option for us to pursue... right... now.<<

>>Sweet Allah, have mercy...<< cried Zaide, actually getting up from the table and walking over to the window to take deep gulps of air. >>Do you live in a dream world, Jan? With your wealthy boyfriend, and your expensive flat, do you live in such a dream world, that you don't notice how close we come to going under every damn season, the weeks that we have to wonder if we are going to have to stiff the suppliers or the staff...<<

>>It hasn't been that bad since 1973<< I told her testily. >>Don't exaggerate.<<

>>Jan, she's not exaggerating that much. You don't do the accounts. I do. And I am, frankly, sick of it. I actually think that Zaide is right.<<

I stared at Myrthe. >>But you said yourself, you didn't trust them. They were Nazis. Nuremberg or not, that is where their money came from.<<

>>It was a long time ago<< sighed Myrthe.

>>These are not honest people. They're based in a tax haven<< I protested.

>>So what. I'd be based in Monaco, too, if I could afford it.<< Myrthe rolled her eyes, then started to collect up the papers around the table. >>Maybe we should sleep on it, think on it overnight. Maybe you should talk to Florian, he's always far more pragmatic about business matters than you are.<<

>>Flori's on tour of the States for ten weeks<< I reminded her.

>>And who did _he_ get into bed with, to afford that? << said Myrthe, and my mind suddenly flashed back to that hotel room, to the gun dangling from Ira's armpit.

I was outvoted. I knew I was outvoted, and it was my own damned fault. It was me who had insisted that Zaide had got her own shares, to break any deadlocks between Myrthe and myself. And now it was Zaide who was pulling us hardest towards the course I did not want to take.

Christ, I needed someone to talk to. Oh, how I wished Flori was there. I had no sense for business, it was true. I had talked my colleagues out of going into business with Johannes, and that had been wrong. I had released my highly valuable software as shareware for the purposes of art over commerce, and that, I was already starting to realise, had been absolutely foolish. And yet, I couldn't help it. My gut just said _no_ to Maxim Sainte-Cyr, and I just couldn't explain why.

I rang Claudia in Hamburg, but she was sanguine about it. >>Take the money<< she said. >>Your heart obviously isn't in the business any more, so you should leave it to those whose hearts are.<<

>>Easy for you to say<< I snorted. >>You're the daughter of a millionaire.<<

>>And you're married to the son of a millionaire<< she reminded me. >>If money, or friendship, or Maxim Sainte-Cyr weren't in the way, what would you be doing?<<

>>I'd spend all day locked in a computer lab with a fast processor and a direct link online to CYCLADES<< I confessed.

>>You should let them go, then.<< Claudia told me.

After I hung up with Claudia, I did something very unusual. I rang up the Schneider-Esleben house, and though the housekeeper recognised my voice over the phone, and asked if I wanted to speak to Evamaria, I stuttered no, and asked for Paul.

>>Little Mouse<< he said in a teasing tone that reminded me so much of Flori it almost threw me. >>Are you missing that no-good son of mine so much that you need your Papa-in-law for male companionship?<<

>>I am missing your son, yes, but actually, I rang because I rather need your business advice.<<

Paul chuckled, a deep, hearty belly laugh that made me feel about Tina's age. >>Of course. You know I think of you as one of my own daughters. Ask me anything you need to know.<<

I begged his professional confidentiality first, and having secured that, explained the full situation to him. Reassuringly, Paul was very thoughtful on the matter, and asked a number of questions I had not thought to pursue. He suggested other options - such as the possibility of becoming a silent partner who kept my financial interest, but surrendered my say in the running of the business - and suggested a whole slew of tactics to pursue with my business partners, to help smooth the matter over. The crucial thing, he insisted, was to keep relations sweet with Myrthe and Zaide. Maxim Sainte-Cyr and their lawyers, I should probably treat as adversaries for now, but my own business partners, I needed to keep things smoothed over with, as much as possible. The advice was invaluable, even before he offered to pass along his own lawyers' details, and I thanked him for everything profusely.

>>You're family<< he insisted, with a fierce affection. >>I know Flori is at that age where he is still very sensitive about his old Papa, but Schneider-Eslebens stick together. Remember that.<<

I went in the next morning, and told my partners that it was clear that I had been outvoted. Under the rules we'd all agreed to, if Zaide and Myrthe voted for the merger with Maxim Sainte-Cyr, then I'd have to go with them. But I needed time - and I was sure they could buy me time by declaring the need to take a full inventory, or call in the auditors, or whatever it was they could think of - to make up my mind whether to sell out or stay as a silent partner. Really, I wanted ten weeks of time, but I didn't think I was going to get that, even though Zaide smirked triumphantly and hugged me like we were friends again.

I prevaricated. I swung back and forth. One of the MSC's auditors rang and asked if the copyrights on my fabrics had been retained by me or assigned to the company. I had no idea what that meant, so I had to ring Paul, who explained to me about intellectual property, and asked what kind of contract we had signed when incorporated. I did a major wobble when I realised that the intellectual property of my fabric designs belonged not to myself, but to Weber und Schneider, as an entity. After all, it was how we'd been able to go on using Silke's designs after she quit. At that point, I wanted to stay and keep an eye on my babies, just to make sure I still had a say in anything that MSC decided to do with them. But then another auditor rang and asked me, on a weekly average, how many hours I put in, at the Atelier and at the shop. I had no idea, I told him. It could be as much as 50 or 60 hours a week when we were about to launch a collection, or as little as 10 if I was about to publish a paper in computer science.

>>Well, come up with an average<< said the auditor rather testily.

>>I can't<< I said. >>It's not like we keep timecards.<<

>> _What_? Why ever not? << The auditor actually sounded shocked at this lax business practice.

Because the moment you punched a clock, you became a slave to that clock, I thought, as Banu had drilled into all of our heads. >>Because the tailors are all paid by piecework, the shop girls get a salary, and us designers are paid a dividend when we actually receive money for our consignments.<<

>>I see<< said the auditor, followed by a long silence. >>This will, of course, all have to change when you become a subsidiary of Maxim Sainte-Cyr.<<

I resolved at that moment to go.

About a week into the tour, I finally got a phone call from Flori. His birthday was a Monday, and they had the day off from their hectic touring schedule. I stayed home specially to wait for his call, and the phone rang early afternoon - clearly first thing in the morning for him.

"Will you accept a reverse charges phone call from Boston Massachusetts?" droned a very American sounding woman in my ear.

"Yes, yes, of course" I gushed, and there was a click as Flori came on the line.

"Hallo, hallo!" he said, his voice sounding very distorted by the long distance connection.

"Happy Birthday" I shouted, in English, since he was in the States.

"Thank you, thank you. It is a happy birthday, ja." His voice sounded light, and his mood was chipper, which was a good sign. "America is very big, and very loud, but yes, the people are very friendly, and it is marvellous, and we are all having a marvellous time."

"Oh, I'm glad." I didn't really know what to say, as my heart felt almost full to overflowing just at the sound of his voice, switching back to German as it felt like a more intimate language between us. >>I miss you.<<

>>I miss you, too<< he said, and his voice tightened slightly. Oh no, that was the wrong thing to have said. But then he brightened. >>You would love it here. We are having such a fantastic time. Last night, we played in Boston, and a group of physics students from MIT came to visit us in the backstage - isn't this funny? - they loved our song about the comet! And today, because it is my birthday, they promise to take me to Boston Science Museum. One of the students, both her parents work at MIT, her father is a professor at MIT, and her mother is a librarian, so they say they will show me the planetarium. A planetarium! And a guided tour by a physics professor! Isn't this wonderful?<<

>>That sounds like Flori heaven<< I laughed. I was just relieved to hear him sounding so happy, as I was worried he might have lapsed into the homesick funk that often overtook him on tour. >>America is being good to you.<<

>>Very good<< Flori assured me. >>Look, we cannot speak for long. But I'll ring you again on our next day off. The 14th - next Tuesday, yes?<<

>>OK, I'll speak to you then.<< I sighed, then added " _Ich liebe dich_." It had always been easier to say it in German because it was something I'd only ever said to Florian.

"Ich liebe dich auch. Tschüss!" The phone clicked in my hand and went dead, the whole conversation gone in about three minutes. It wasn't until I hung up that I realised that I had not even mentioned the business with Weber und Schneider. And then I felt stupid, like why on earth should I have even thought of bothering him with it when he was very busy, on tour, a thousand miles away. Very busy. Huh. But not too busy to go on expeditions to a Science Museum.

Picking up the phone again, I rang Isabella and asked if she wanted to go for a drink. She sounded happy to hear from me, and agreed quickly. Not the Mata Hari, though, somewhere quieter where we could talk. She suggested an intimate little bistro on the edge of the old town, near the Rhine. We could get dinner, it would be like a girlie-date, while our boys were out of town.

Isabella turned up looking very glamourous, and we were shown to a very private little window-nook with a gorgeous view of the river. When the waiter came and lit some candles on our table, it felt oddly like a date-date, rather than a girlie-date, but I pushed such thoughts out of my mind. I explained, at length, what had been going on with Weber und Schneider, and she listened carefully, asking many of the good, proper, business-minded questions that Paul had nagged me to ask.

She told me that her theatre had been approached by a large, national German chain. Unfortunately, she was not actually the owner of the business, merely the manager, so it was not her decision, to sell out or not. But she had insisted on accompanying the owner (who was generally very, very hands off, so long as Isabelle continued to make him a good profit) to all of the meetings. She had not liked the way the representatives spoke, ignoring her completely to suck up to the owner, so she had gone through her contacts book and rang up a few of the cinemas that they had recently taken over. No one was happy with the arrangement - sure, the money was more regular, but the freedom they had given up was actually what had made them all happy in their jobs.

Next, she had rung round the theatres that had remained independent. They were suspicious at first, as everyone was struggling. Television was eating into their profits, and overheads were rising fast. After talking to the third manager in a row, she had come up with an idea. Why didn't the independent theatres band together, not in a corporation, but a consortium? Surely they could share some of those overheads, for example, taking out a full page ad in the Rheinische Post, with all of the independent theatres where the film was showing at the bottom, and splitting the costs, instead of each of them struggling to come up with maybe a tiny ad in the back. All sorts of little things like that, co-ordinating their schedules, banding together to make cheaper bulk purchases of necessary items such as cleaning supplies and popcorn kernels, they had made such a difference to their overheads that her owner had told the large German conglomerate to get lost.

I thought carefully of whether this would work for Weber und Schneider, but I suspected our businesses were so different, and our overheads so incomparable that it would not. But still, I looked at Isabella with a little more awe that night, realising afresh exactly how shrewd and how clever she was. Although we'd spent a lot of time together, as we'd often been thrown together by our partners, it was the first time I'd ever actually talked to her intensely, one on one, talking about _our_ lives, rather than our boyfriends'. I decided I liked her, a lot, and asked her if maybe we could get together for dinner again in a couple of weeks, perhaps after I came back from the conference in New York. She grinned so widely and accepted so readily that I wondered, maybe was she missing Ralf a little more than she let on?

I spoke to Florian even more briefly the week after that, as he was distracted by repeated calls from Ralf to attend an interview (it was funny; they had almost studiously avoided interviews in Germany) and anyway, I was very busy preparing for my conference. He told me the date of his next day off, but I said I would be at my conference then - opposite sides of the country, so there was no chance of meeting up - and told him we'd speak on the next, making a note of the date in my diary. When I hung up, I realised I had still not told him about Weber und Schneider.

I agonised on it. I flipped a coin. I tossed dice. I read tea leaves. I did a tarot card reading. I did everything short of consulting a hippie fortune-teller. Finally, after going to the library and reading up on the company, looking at those old photos of Nazi soldiers in their ads from the 30s, I decided to sell. But, still, I asked Myrthe, in a very tearful meeting, not to convey my decision to MSC until the moment my plane left for New York, as I did not want to be able to change my mind at the last minute.

Then I did something very naughty; I rang my father in law and told him the exact date that the announcement would be made that I would not be staying, so if he wanted to get the best price for his shares, to sell out the day before. Unethical? Oh yes. But I was actually grateful to Paul for buying those shares in the first place. And Paul was pleased, as really, despite already being a millionaire, there was nothing he liked better than making a killing on the stock market. Johannes, I specifically did not tell. He had started to make me uneasy.

And then I packed and left for New York.


	61. New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan makes some new friends at Benoit's conference in New York City.

I arrived in the States in bright spring sunshine, though I was jet-lagged and sleep deprived and dazed after a turbulent flight. Immigration proved a bit tricky. Though the visa had been cleared in advance, to allow me to attend the conference, the man at the gate stared at me as if he had never seen a young woman before. Were German fashions really that different from American? Looking at the dowdy, gaudily dressed tourists around me, I realised that they might be.

"Purpose of your visit?" he asked stiffly, though he had my forms right in front of him.

"Business," I said briskly, then when he continued to stare at me, I added, "I am attending a conference."

"What kind of a conference?"

"Computer Science," I replied, with the jaunty confidence of a 23 year old, as the immigration officer stared at me in total disbelief. "It is the International Conference on Digital Graphics and Computer Generated Art, chaired by Benoit Mandlebrot, you may have heard of him?"

But this foolish young American, apparently living under a rock, clearly had not. He chose another line of attack. "Your English is very good for a West German. Where did you get this passport?"

"I'm British," I told him. "My father is British and I attended school near Manchester."

"Place of birth?" I told him Cape Town, South Africa. "Place of residency?" Getting rather bored of this, I rattled off the address of Florian's flat, in German. He narrowed his eyes and went for his superior, telling him that I was clearly lying about everything, why this 23 year old girl with fashionable clothes and 3 nationalities who claimed to be attending an international computing conference, she could only be an East German spy!

I would have burst out laughing, were I not slightly afraid of the guns they displayed so prominently on their hip belts. Me! An international Soviet spy! But of course, though the Germans were slowly beginning to initiate the long, involved processes of rapprochement back home, the Americans were still deep in the midst of their cold war paranoia. So I silently followed the supervisor to a small waiting room at the back, where my "Do Not X-Ray" box was waiting for us. I showed him the tapes, I even showed him the film, holding it up to the light so that he could see that it was, indeed, computer generated graphics. 

They held me for a number of hours. The whole thing was so surreal that I felt like I was in some Technicolor American spy film, until the supervisor's supervisor actually rang up IBM to ask if they were expecting a young West German woman travelling on a British passport.

Oh yes, came the grateful reply. That was Jan Schneider-DeLay, a guest of honour. They had sent a limousine to collect me, but the driver had been sent back to the depot when I had failed to appear outside Customs with the rest of the passengers from my flight. Now please could they release me and send me on my way, as I was expected? The look on their faces, as they were forced to send me on my way, it was too funny for words! My Soviet Spy film was becoming a farce, as they fell over themselves to try to make the error up to me.

I found a taxi - bright yellow taxis, just like in the movies! - and made my way to the mid-town hotel where the conference would be held. I was as excited as a child at the famous New York skyline that came into view as the taxi swung up onto a bridge - a double-decker bridge! - and we flew up over a sluggish grey-brown river and into the city of spires and shining steel and glass. Oh, the smell of it! No one had warned me that New York would smell bad, the polluted river, and piles of garbage waiting to be collected on street corners, weird bursts of steam making their way up between the cracks in the pavement. No one had warned me that New York had Plattenbauen, either, great decaying concrete hulks staring across the river at their shiny glass counterparts on Manhattan. New York didn't have an excuse for Plattenbauen - it hadn't been bombed in the war. And yet there they were, the very wealthy and the unimaginably poor, a stone's throw away from one another.

The taxi inched across great avenues, eight lanes wide, rimmed with fantasy architecture. (I made a mental note to tell Paul that I had seen both the Pan-Am Building and Lever House, with its fantastical floating tower, on Park Avenue.) Then, finally, the cab pulled up outside my hotel, a building that would have been a great gleaming spire anywhere else, but in New York was only one of a row of anonymous Hochhausen.

Somehow, struggling with the funny money all the same colour and all the same size, I paid the taxi driver and made my way inside. The receptionist gave me a name-badge, a thick paper envelope full of important conference documents and schedules, and a room-key. "Your room-mate already checked in a few hours ago, so don't be surprised if there's someone in the room."

"Thank you" I said, feeling very, very overwhelmed, as I looked about at all the important looking scientists already gathering in the lobby and bar area. For a moment, I wondered if they, too, thought I looked like a Soviet spy. But I was feeling a bit shy after my immigration ordeal, so I took the elevator up, located my room, then tentatively knocked on the door before inserting my key, so as not to intrude.

"Come on in!" called back a woman's voice, loud, quite American. (Though after a few days, I would come to realise that she wasn't loud at all - that was just the volume at which most Americans spoke. It was so disconcerting after years of Flori and Ralf and their soft-spoken voices.) 

I opened the door, and was greeted by a blast of disco music, then stepped into the room to see an extraordinary woman with a pleasant round face and a huge mass of curly auburn hair, already sitting with her feet up on a desk, a pile of punchcards spread out across her lap. "Are you Jan, then?" she asked, and I nodded very shyly. "Come on, I already know you speak very good English" she laughed, extending her hand. "Most Germans speak better English than we do. It's why you're all such good spies. I'm Rebecca."

"I'm not German, and I'm certainly not a spy," I explained, and not for the last time that weekend as I tried to make myself heard over the music, stooping to shake her hand. "I'm actually British. It's my other half that's German."

"No kidding. And what does he do? Is he another programmer? All those Germans over there are crazy technical boffins, aren't they?"

"Actually no. He's a musician," I said.

"No kidding!" she almost shouted this time.

"I, erm... don't kid?"

She stared at me for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Ah, you British people, you're all so dry and hilarious! I can tell we are gonna have a great time. What does he play, your... boyfriend? Husband? You're wearing a wedding ring, so I'm guessing husband."

Opening my mouth, I was about to tell her about the flute, and about the synthesisers, and the strange machines that were half tone generator, half sequencing programme, when the music in the background shifted, changing from the pounding beat of disco to the slam of a door, a hooter, and then a very familiar bassline. It took a moment to register what it was, like my brain was still in denial, right up until the moment that Flori's vocodered voice announced "Aauuu-toooo-baaahn."

As Wolfgang's drumbeat and Ralf and Florian's voices kicked in, singing in harmony, I glared at her. "Are you being funny?" I asked.

"What?" she asked, surprised.

"This music. Are you being funny, are you having a joke with me, playing this?"

Rebecca shook her curly hair. "It's just the radio, sweetie. I always love the New York stations, they're so wild, compared to the staid stuff they play out in Rhode Island."

"Oh mein gott" I gasped, pointing at the radio. "This is... This is my Florian's band."

"This? Really?" Rebecca pushed herself backwards in the wheelie chair, reaching for the radio and turning the volume up almost as loud as it would go. "Wow, this song is on the radio all the time. Oh my god, this is _awesome_."

I almost laughed at the way she pronounced it - _ossum_ \- but I was still reeling from hearing Flori's and Ralf's voices spilling out of the radio in a foreign country.

"Wow, no, this is cool. This is really... you know, it's so stiff and so grid-like, it's actually really kinda funky. Danceable," she pronounced, as she took off her glasses and laid them down on the desk, on top of the stack of punchcards. "Hey, you know what... you like music, yeah?" I nodded. "We gotta go to this stuffy meet and greet tonight, and introduce ourselves to all the hot-shots and the big-wigs in the computer graphics world. But tomorrow night, whadda you say, we cut loose and go out on the town? My housemate's band are playing, down in the East Village, and if you like this, you would _love_ David's band."

"Your boyfriend is a musician, too?" I asked, barely believing the symmetry.

"Oh my god, no," she laughed, sounding almost horrified by the idea. "David is not my boyfriend, he's just my _housemate_ housemate. He's a bit of a freak, to be honest, kind of a weirdo, but I like him. We get along. And his music is really good. Especially if you like this kind of thing. He, too, is so stiff he is actually super-funky. What do you say?"

"OK..." I found myself agreeing, as her energy and her laughter were so contagious. I had no idea what I was about to be dragged into, but I had resolved to go, and have a good time, and experience everything that New York City had to offer.

"Awesome!" Rebecca shouted.

I took a brief nap to help me over my jet lag, turning off the radio while Rebecca was in the shower, then we dressed and went downstairs to meet the other conference attendees. "Have you been to one of these before?" I asked.

"Nope!" she laughed.

"Me neither," I confessed.

"Well, just stick by my side, kiddo, and do whatever I do. They can't chuck us out if there's two of us, huh?" she giggled, and together we swept into the room on a wave of her energy.

We found Benoit fairly easily, as he was surrounded by a gaggle of important looking people, but I insisted on going over and saying hello. He was a short, round nerd of a man, with engineer's glasses just like Ralf's, and an engaging grin. I liked him immediately, and he was very friendly once he worked out who we were. Not that it was hard, as we were the only female attendees with the gold-edged badges of speakers.

"You two have found each other already, I see. I have a feeling you two are going to be trouble," he laughed, wagging a finger at us in a grandfatherly way.

"You betcha!" said Rebecca, with a wicked grin.

It was such a strange evening. I talked to Benoit for about 20 minutes, before he was swept away to talk to first one important mathematician, and then another. And then Rebecca and I were left pretty much to our own devices. You would have thought, in a crowd that size, where we were almost the only women, that we would have been swamped and pestered, especially given that we were both young, attractive women, a blonde and a redhead, on their own at a hotel in New York. But the conference was full of boffins and eggheads, none of whom seemed to have the slightest idea that the pair of us might actually be able to hold our own in a technical conversation.

So instead, we liberated a bottle of wine, and sat down by ourselves in a corner, and set about demolishing it. We talked about _everything_ , and oh boy, could Rebecca talk.

"So what do you do?" I asked, curiously, as none of the men had bothered.

"I'm an animator" explained Rebecca. "When I was a kid, I used to just do cartoons, dancing dogs, that kind of thing. But last year, I got a hold of some punchcards and some time on a mainframe, and I did my first animation, on a computer."

"At speed, or printed off, frame by frame?" I asked.

"At speed," she said, nodding decisively. "It was really primitive, to be honest, just a couple of polygons to make the figure, but I actually got it to render, frame by frame, fast enough to get the appearance of motion. RISD had never seen anything like it. Little green glowing triangles on a computer screen, dancing about, in real time."

"Oh my god, I wish I'd spoken to you before I did the Fractal animations. I had to print them out and take them over to the film department of the Kunstakademie - that's the art school, where I'm a student. Kunst sounds rude, but it just means arts or crafts."

"Wait, you're an art student? I thought you were some hot shot programmer."

"I'm kind of both. No one quite seems to know where I belong."

"Oh lord, you and me both. You and I have got _so much_ to talk about!"

We finished our bottle of wine and we talked - though after five years I found myself struggling a bit to remember English - for the rest of the evening, locked off in our own little world. We talked about animation and graphics, we talked about polygons and programming, we talked about being the only girls in the weirdly macho environments of computer labs.

"Programming used to be seen as women's work!" Rebecca raged, pounding the table. "Back in the 40s and 50s, they thought it was something for secretaries to do!"

"I know; my mother was one of them!"

"But as soon as they realised there was money in it, that's when they chased all the chicks out" insisted Rebecca. "And it's bullshit - because in the early days, they actually tried to make out like we'd be better at it. Smaller hands, better manual dexterity, and of course, we are so _language_ -oriented!"

So I told her all about my father, and DeLay line memory, and how my parents had met, and all about my life, in a way that I had not opened up to anyone in... well, since that strange, thwarted evening with Carol, to be honest. And even Carol hadn't known anything about programming. It struck me how it was just so rare that I ever had the chance to talk to anyone - let alone another woman - on a serious technical level about the graphics programming I had been doing. By the end of the evening, we were firm friends, though I was so tired with jet lag that I fell asleep when we went back to our room to talk over another bottle of wine.

Of course, I was up at the crack of dawn. I had grown lazy in Düsseldorf, accustomed to Flori's habits of sleeping until noon, but noon in West Germany was still 6 in the morning, so I dragged Rebecca down for an early breakfast, followed by a reccie of the conference hall, and more importantly, the computers that would be available to us for our demonstrations. The techie was coming at 10 to set the machines up, but by the time he got there, Rebecca and I had already booted everything up and got it running and loaded our programs. We checked over one another's code with professional eyes (I was very impressed with hers - no spaghetti code!) and compared tips and started to show off a little to one another, not in that horrible competitive way that the young students in the Computer Lab often tried with me, but in genuine appreciation for the skills we shared.

But when the technician showed up to set up the projectors, I started to panic a little. You see, my beautiful animations, that had looked so good on a small screen in the film department at the Kunstakademie, in the huge, grand, hotel conference room, they looked, well, blurry. I panicked, checking the film, wondering if those paranoid immigration officers had somehow managed to mess it up.

"It looks fine to me," said Rebecca, but I continued to fiddle, while she loaded hers up. But when she projected her dancing wireframes, those, too, looked muddy and blurry, and I started to fuss with the projector again. "Leave it alone, Jan," she barked, and pulled me to face her. "When was the last time you had your eyes checked?"

"Checked for what?" I shrugged.

Turning around, she picked up the large, round glasses she used for close detail work, and popped them onto my face. The world seemed to warp, none of the angles adding up, the floor seeming in completely the wrong place, and the screen seeming about five inches and fifty miles away, as the glasses made me see double. But looking at the screen, I realised that neither of the dancing wireframes in front of my eyes were the slightest bit burry.

"Oh," I said quietly. How had I never noticed? But then I realised. Everything in West Germany was so small - the classrooms, the computer labs, the cinemas. I had never realised how small, until I was confronted with New York's bigness. So that was why I was so hopeless with films, and always had to ask Flori which character was which in silent films where I couldn't hear their voices to tell them apart.

"Come on," she sighed. "We're going to Speedy Specs."

"But it takes weeks to get new glasses," I said, remembering what Ralf had gone through when he wanted to swap out his old, owl-like plastic frames for his new metal-framed engineer's glasses.

"Not in New York, honey. Everything's quick here. One-hour photo, one-hour laundry... one-hour glasses."

So she took me to an absolutely enormous opticians, down on 14th Street, not with the small selection of glasses I saw commercially available in West Germany, but with hundreds, maybe even thousands of designs. My mind boggled. The optician saw me within ten minutes, and the test took less than half an hour, before he pronounced "Astigmatism. Don't they test for this when they issue drivers' licenses in Europe?"

"I can't drive," I confessed. The Americans both looked at me as if I was completely incompetent.

I selected a pair of frames, heavy, slightly rounded tortoiseshell, that the shop assistant told me would suit my long face and my square jaw. Then we were told to come back, not quite in one hour, but in three. I thought we were just going to go back to the hotel, but Rebecca had other plans.

"Oh no," she said. "We're going shopping."

Greenwich Village! Union Square! Christopher Street! Places I knew only as names from Velvet Underground songs, and there they were. Max's Kansas City, closed and slightly forlorn during the daytime, but giving off a semi-magical aura. We walked down St Mark's Place, and Rebecca pointed out The Dom, where the Velvet Underground had actually played, only a few years before. And the shops! I could not get used to the shops!

Düsseldorf, the Design City, was very elegant, but it was also very small. For certain, it sold beautiful things, but in highly limited quantities, and very exclusive and highly expensive. In New York, they just had everything, all of the time! If you wanted high, lace-up boots in West Germany, especially you wanted them in an unusual colour, you had to order them specially, with the full payment in advance. In a basement on St Mark's Place, they had every boot in every colour, and you could just ask the shop assistant for every conceivable size.

And record shops! I nearly blew my entire conference budget in the first record shop, before remembering I would have to carry all that incredibly heavy vinyl home. In Düsseldorf, if you wanted something on import (and most of the interesting American and British records still were) you had to know what you wanted, who made it, and specially place an order - or if you were lucky, like I was, Heidi would get to know your taste and order one or two in advance. In New York, every record was on the shelves, often multiple copies. America, the land of plenty. I could not believe my eyes.

I just did not want to leave, at the end of my three hours, when Rebecca told me we had to go back to Speedy Specs to pick up my glasses. I put them on, and a very severe young person stared back at me, with huge doll-like blue eyes, turned down slightly at the corner. Did I really look like that? So severe, so serious. Maybe I did look a little like a Soviet spy, after all.

We dashed back to the conference, having missed the buffet lunch (Rebecca and I had eaten slices of pizza on St Mark's Place - American street pizza was such a revelation! So delicious, so full of flavour, all garlic and tomato and fat, sizzling cheese, so different from the greasy stuff you could hardly tell apart from the paper plates that littered the streets of the Altstadt in Düsseldorf.) I was glad we had set up that morning, as there was a steady stream of speakers, leading up to the big keynote speeches of the evening.

I was almost shattered with nerves, but thankfully Rebecca went first. She showed her film, talked about her code, then fielded questions from the audience - thankfully they were reasonable questions from a highly technical audience, and she handled them with aplomb. There was wild applause at the end of her segment, not least from me.

There was a brief interlude for some snacks, then Benoit took the podium. It took me a moment to realise - oh god, we weren't skipping my segment and proceeding straight to his talk, he was introducing me! I collected my notes, then stood up and made my way forward, still trying to get used to those new glasses that made everything just that tiny little bit too clear.

I looked out into the audience and it was just a tunnel of bright lights, though I knew there were hundreds of people in that auditorium, the cream of computer scientists from around the world. For a terrible moment, as the first slide flickered up, my wits deserted me. This was terrifying. How did Ralf and Flori do this, night after night, for months at a time? How did they get up, in front of crowds of what were now thousands of people, and try to communicate their ideas? I was paralysed with fright.

But then, words floated up into my mind, and I heard Flori saying, in his soft, low voice, >> _Don't look at the people, look up at the lights. Look at the ceiling, the sky. I trained myself, at a young age, to go very still when I felt afraid. Make your body completely motionless, and breathe out all of the fear and the badness into the air surrounding you, while looking up and raising your thoughts above it all. The panic goes, with a few deep breaths._ <<

I took a deep breath, glanced down at my notes, the presentation I'd gone through a hundred times, then looked up at the lights, and began. People say I talked steadily and calmly, in a charmingly clipped half-British, half-German accent, for forty minutes. People told me afterwards, that it was one of the highlights of the conference, with ideas drawn both from the high-tech world of Telefunken and IBM, but also from the conceptual art sphere of Joseph Beuys and Nam-June Paik. I've read memoirs of respected scientists and artists who say that their whole careers were changed by the presentation that I gave, that warm, clear April evening in New York. I was so stiff with stage fright that I don't remember a word of it.

From my notes, and from a taped recording that Benoit made, I did turn it into an academic paper, and then a few years later, a book which made the low reaches of the New York Times Bestseller list, after _Gödel Escher Bach_ had whet the appetites of the public for this arcane science. But of that evening, I remember little, except the acrid adrenaline smell of fear, the falling sensation in my stomach, and the steady whir of the computer's fan drowning out all of my thoughts.

As far as I was concerned, I made a right mess of it, then ten minutes later, Benoit stood up and gave his keynote speech, and people forgot all about me, and just remembered him, his kindly face, his dazzling ideas, and my beautiful coloured animations whirling in the background.

We put in a brief appearance at the celebrations afterwards, but I convinced myself, it was all for Benoit. Again, we chatted only briefly, before he was whisked off to talk to someone far more important. People started to crowd in at me, congratulating me on my speech, asking if I was really that same Jan Schneider of the famous algorithm. I smiled the best I could, and seemed to be continually shaking hands, but really I needed to get very drunk, very quickly, and the hotel's watered down cocktails were just not doing the trick. Looking over, I caught Rebecca's gaze, then caught her arm. "Come on, get me out of here," I begged, and she obliged.

Next thing I knew, we were in a cab spinning downtown as fast as the Saturday night traffic allowed. We were completely overdressed for the occasion, as Rebecca stumbled on her high heels, and dragged me into an extremely dodgy looking bar advertising "Country, Blue Grass and Blues" - an odd choice, I thought, but I'd come to trust my tour guide. And here, I found, were the American equivalent of those kids that crowded our shop, in their leather jackets and their distressed jeans and their rebellious Stooges glares. 

Rebecca bought us a couple of beers, and dragged me up front, where her friend's band were setting up. Her friend's band, I noted, did not wear leather jackets, not like the long-haired rebel kids skulking round the bar. They all had rather short hair, and clothes - tennis shirts, slacks, sneakers - that seemed almost aggressively normal. It all reminded me a little bit of Power Station, and their deliberately un-rock'n'roll stance, but a sort of clean-cut, American take on the same idea. They came over and sat down at our table as they waited to go on, and Rebecca introduced me, and we chatted a bit. Up close, the singer even reminded me a tiny bit of Flori, not so much in his looks - he was dark where Flori was fair, and had brown eyes that were almost black, instead of so pale they looked colourless - but in the perpetually curious 'space alien visiting earth for the first time' way that he looked at everything. I liked him immediately, though he was quiet and intense, and didn't have much to say. Pre-gig nerves, I thought.

I bought the next round of beers, as I was determined to get very drunk, sucking down the weak American beer quickly. The band seemed surprised, and thanked me prolifically. Oh, was buying rounds for everyone at the table not a thing that Americans did, then? I could never figure out the system.

They went on as I started my third beer, and I pulled Rebecca up front, hoping I would get a chance to dance. The first song was very, very odd. The singer performed it alone onstage, to the accompaniment of an automated rhythm box and an acoustic guitar. It was a strange song, half in English, half in French, apparently written from the point of view of a serial killer. I mean, I was used to songs written about strange things - motorways, comets, nazi bombs - but this was something else! And they only got stranger from there!

Rebecca was absolutely right; I liked it a lot. The music was very minimal, as there were only three of them - the singer, plus a drummer, and a small blonde girl who climbed onto the stage to play bass, looking like an art teacher who had wandered into the wrong gig by mistake. But it was, much like Power Station, so tight, and so grid-like that it was actually quite funky and very danceable. I didn't care if kids in New York were too cool to dance, I had had four or five of those little American beers and I needed to let off some steam. Rebecca only laughed, and kept apologising to people she knew, saying, "It's OK, she's German..." as if this were an explanation for everything.

I danced until the band finished, and then someone told Rebecca that there was a party at their loft, so we climbed into the back of the van, and I found myself transported even further downtown.

"SoHo," someone told me as I tried to crane my neck out the window.

"How can we be in Soho? We're a million miles from London?" I wondered aloud.

"Well, technically it's Sou-Hou. South of Houston. Rents are very cheap all the way down here, so we can get a whole loft for the band to rehearse in."

I made them stop at a cornershop so I could buy a couple of six-packs of that fizzy American beer and maybe a couple of bottles of wine. Again, everyone seemed astonished that I was willing to buy so much. That funny green American money - it was hard to tell what the denominations were, so it was much easier to spend vast quantities of it, and anyway, if the sale of Weber und Schneider had gone through, I could certainly afford it. I loved New York! I loved Rebecca's friends! I loved this weird, cute, minimal, preppy band of theirs. I _really_ loved the loft they took me to, way up high in an industrial building, with a view of the dingier parts of lower Manhattan. Ralf and his strange harbour-side loft, I realised, was not actually perverse, it was prescient. This was how everyone in New York seemed to live.

Someone produced a stereo, and we danced to disco records. A long, ecstatic, throbbing orgasm of a track that someone told me was Donna Summer's _Love To Love You Baby_. I closed my eyes and threw my head back and spun around, staying up until the sun rose, the alcohol pretty much all worn off as we went up to the roof to watch the light slowly dawn over the river, and miles and miles of a city that someone told me was called Brooklyn.

Rebecca and I slunk back to the hotel at about 6 in the morning, and managed to get about 4 hours of sleep before the next round of the conference began. I was a complete mess, jet lag and hangover a potent mix, but suddenly my body just seemed to snap awake. Since I was still on German time, this was mid-afternoon for me, and I was raring to go. I took a shower, changed my clothes and dove back into the world of computer graphics with my ears still ringing from the sound system at CBGBs.

I just about made it through the afternoon with a brief nap up in the room, but Benoit specifically asked for our company at dinner that evening. Although I was a bit dazed, I drank a large portion of coffee and hoped that I could turn myself into charming company. I was quite subdued, but fortunately, he didn't really notice, talking to me at length about the new research programme he had been trying to talk his bosses at IBM into funding. 

It sounded like an amazing project - bringing together computer scientists, mathematicians and artists to try and push the ever-burgeoning capabilities of computer graphics to their limits, with the hopes of mapping the fractal galaxies he had discovered. It was the sort of 'pure research' project which ended up changing the world just with its by-products. That, he said, was why he wanted visionaries and artists on board, as well as the propellerheads. Propellerheads were good at building, good at making impossible things happen. But he wanted people with real creativity, and the ability to think _sideways_ , to come up with real-world applications for impossible things.

I felt my energy, which had been flagging due to a potent combination of jet-lag and hangover, suddenly surge again. This was my dream, to be honest, and had been what I had been trying to make my social circle into, since I had arrived in Düsseldorf. I remembered that magical evening in Paris, when my friends from CYCLADES had come to the Power Station gig, and we had spent all night talking about the confluence of art and technology, and music and science. We had all joked that the exchange might lead to great things - but it had been only one evening, fuelled by French champagne. But what if Benoit and his IBM funding could make it a reality? I thought of artists and scientists all working together in tandem, and my head spun. 

But who should be involved with such a thing? Benoit was looking at me with such an intent expression that it was clear he expected me to talk. I chewed over the notion for a minute, then suggested that probably, someone like Nam-June Paik was the sort of person that he needed to get on board.

But Benoit just smiled mysteriously. "Listen to me, going on about myself. What are your plans, girls? Like, say, the next four or five years?"

"Oh, that's easy" said Rebecca. "I've been accepted to do my masters at MIT. I'm joining the Architecture Machine Group."

I had no idea what that was, but Benoit looked highly impressed. "Congratulations, that's quite an achievement. Well, to be honest, they're lucky to get you."

"Architecture?" I asked curiously. "You never mentioned any interest in architecture. My father-in-law's an architect. I don't know how futuristic that seems to me. Just an awful lot of concrete, and shouting at engineers."

"Haha, it's not much to do with architecture these days. Yes, I know it's not a proper name, but we're not done inventing the field yet! It started with CAD/CAM, but expanded into, well.. pretty much anything to do with planning and programming... not just the future of computing and computer graphics, but programming the future itself. You would _love_ it, Jan. You should totally apply!"

"I don't know about that," I said quietly. To be fair, it sounded absolutely amazing, but my hangover and my jet lag were kicking into high gear, and I was fading fast. "So much is up in the air, in Düsseldorf at the moment. So much to finish off, and sort out. Decisions to be made..." I let my voice trail off as I thought about the whole mess of things I'd dodged out of by flying to New York, which would now just be waiting for me when I got back home.

"Well, sort it out, and apply next year, then," urged Rebecca. "Honestly, they'd probably take you on the basis of your work with Mandelbrot alone, let alone the Algorithm you invented."

"You never know. Something else exciting might come up for her," said Benoit mysteriously. "Let's keep in touch, Jan."

"Oh, definitely," I laughed, and finished my dinner, than made my excuses to go back to the room to crash. The weekend had been the most exciting of my life so far, but really, I needed it to be over now, so I could sleep.


	62. Aufhalten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the months drag on, can Jan actually remain faithful, with Florian away on tour?
> 
> And can she really see a future in Düsseldorf, when she receives the offer of her dreams.

Rebecca and I parted with warm hugs and fond farewells, exchanging addresses outside the hotel as we prepared to get cabs in different directions. She told me to come and see MIT, if I wanted to see really fast computers. I told her to drop by Düsseldorf, or surf by CYCLADES, if she could find it on the electronic autobahn. She laughed and told me she was definitely going to buy Florian's record, and she would keep an eye out for the band if they played in Boston again.

"Ask for Florian," I insisted. "You two would get on so well together. You have the same sense of humour, I just know you would be friends. Just tell him you know me. Or, if you ever come to Germany, I will introduce you."

But I came home from success and champagne and the heady lights of New York City to a complete mess in Düsseldorf. Although Maxim Sainte-Cyr had agreed to pay me for my stock with the price on the morning of the sale (the stocks did, inevitably fall when news got out that the original Schneider of Weber und Schneider was departing), they were continually trying to stiff me on the assets of the company. They just seemed to be going through everything and consistently under-valuing it between 20 to 30 percent. I rang Isabella, who came into the office with me, and the two of us conferred with Lotte to get a clearer view of what we owned and what we were owed.

The shop, it turned out, had been undervalued by as much as 50%, as MSC wanted to liquidate the stock and get rid of it as quickly as possible. I even heard a rumour that they wanted to kick our rabble out, to put in a high-end branch of Maxim, MSC's speciality boutique, in the beautiful space that we had designed and had renovated! Lotte and Ulrika and Zuzi would be out of jobs, and the teenagers of Düsseldorf would be out of a hang-out. Having seen CBGBs and the New York scene that was starting to spring up around St Mark's Place, I had become even more convinced that the shop's cultural value was just as important - if not more so - than any financial value.

So I rounded up Isabella, who was absolutely brilliant at negotiating hard with a soft and pleasant voice, and marched down to the offices of our landlord to see what we could do. As it turned out, although the company occupied the whole building, we held three separate leases, for the former apartment, the former lawyers' offices, and the shop. Isabella first charmed our landlord, who was more than slightly in awe of her beauty, then filled him full of scare stories. MSC had big, high-powered property lawyers that did nothing but re-negotiate leases at more advantageous rates. It was very likely that they were going to come after the building that Weber und Schneider were in. However, the shop... that was the really valuable bit of real estate as far as the landlord was concerned. Isabella suggested that if he he put the lease of the shop solely in my name, we would continue paying the market rate we had already negotiated with him.

It worked! He broke the lease, and re-wrote a new five-year lease in my name. With the oil-crunch recession still dragging on, and property values falling in Central Düsseldorf, it was actually a rather shrewd thing for him to do. But with the lease secure, we could play hardball with MSC.

So Isabella and I went back to the bargaining table with a new deal. Although I wanted cash for my stock holdings; in exchange for my share of the assets, I would take the shop. On paper, it looked like a terrible deal, because they had so undervalued the stock, to try to get rid of it, but I knew that in truth, I was getting a bargain. The lawyers from MSC jumped on the deal with almost alarming alacrity, like wolves on a lamb, not realising that the lamb was a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Even Johannes called for a bathroom break, and pulled me into the grey and purple lavatory by Silke's former office. >>Don't do it!<< he urged me. >>This is suicidal! You know they are not keeping the shop. They are going to toss you lot out on the street, and put a Maxim Boutique in, instead. If you do this, you know you will just be buying a job-lot of odd stock, with no shop to put it in!<<

>>Thank you for the advice<< I told Johannes, patting him reassuringly on the arm, for I knew that he, himself, had had his eye on that 'job-lot of odd stock' at cut-down prices. >>But I know what I am doing.<<

I went back in the room and the three of us, Myrthe, Zaide and myself, signed the various agreements that all of our lawyers had drafted and fought over. After five years, moving from a dormitory room, to a loft, to a glittery, shiny office space, Weber und Schneider had been sold. I wasn't anywhere near a millionaire, but I now had more than enough to live comfortably for the next five, maybe ten years.

I paused to shake hands with everyone, and to wish no hard feelings to Zaide, and especially Myrthe, who I think felt a little betrayed. And then Isabella and I went downstairs to break the news to Lotte and the shop staff.

I told them to put the closed sign on the window and lock the door, then asked them all to gather in the DJ booth, which was at that point, the only semi-private space we had. Heidi was in there, as she usually was, when she wasn't at the record shop, but I asked her to stay. >>Oh, good. I am glad you're here. That makes things easier.<<

>>What's going on, are you going to sack us all?<< asked Ulrika, looking really rather shaken.

>>Quite the opposite. I've bought the shop. You no longer work for Weber und Schneider, you work for me. Lotte, I'm promoting you from Shop Manager to General Manager. And Heidi, I'm making you a formal offer. How much would it take to tempt you away from the record shop, because I want you as Shop Manager, Buyer, and yes, of course, DJ.<<

Heidi stared at me for a moment, then burst into laughter. >>I don't care; I'd work here for free.<< But then she named a figure.

I grinned and added a good bonus onto it. >>But under one condition. We cannot run the shop at a loss any more, Weber und Schneider will not be here to cover the shortfall. I know this place is never, ever going to run at any kind of real profit. But if you can break even, you all share whatever's left over as a bonus, OK?<<

The offer was unanimously accepted, amidst high-pitched feminine excitement. The shop survived until 1980, when the recession turned, and MSC were finally able to grab the lease back from us at a higher rate. I knew it was a thorn in the side of their new Düsseldorf offices to have teenagers and punks hanging out on the double-helix staircase up to their space, until they were able to put in a second entrance round the back, but I was proud of what my girls accomplished. We had to change the name, of course (we became "Aufhalten" - a literal translation of my maiden name, Delay, that also meant arrest, or detain - which was all thought was a hilarious name for such a fashion-forward shop) but we no longer just sold clothes.

We sold records - concentrating especially on the local German scene - and we sold posters and art and pamphlets and fanzines by local small presses. Heidi had a sharp eye and a keen radar for whatever it was that just about to be really, _really_ hip, and made sure that our shop was the only place in Düsseldorf to get it. And they made their bonus every year - well, except for two particular dark quarters at the height of the oil crisis.

But that evening, I went for a celebratory dinner with Isabella at our romantic little restaurant on the Rhine, and we got really, really stinking drunk. The pair of us put away two bottles of wine at dinner, then lingered over desert for really far too long. She kept staring at me in a way that made my face feel quite warm.

>>It's the glasses<< she said, reaching out to tuck my hair behind one ear, to show off the dark, tortoiseshell plastic. My hair was so long it was brushing my shoulders now, and Sheila had cut a long, sweeping fringe into it. >>They really, really suit you.<<

The waiter was hovering about our table, and as I looked about, I realised how late it was. >>They probably want to close. We should go home.<< I suggested, and called for the cheque.

>>Come back to mine for a nightcap<< suggested Isabella.

>>You really are a bad influence on me>.> I laughed, but of course I went, the pair of us threading our arms through one another's to hold us upright on the long walk south, back to the loft space in the Harbour District. But the night was warm, the stars were out, and there was a faint smell of blossom in the late spring air. And I thought to myself, as we wandered through the little streets of the Altstadt arm in arm, how beautiful Düsseldorf was, and how much I had come to love Germany.

>>Where is Getreu?<< I asked, as I was allowed to enter the flat without being slobbered all over.

>>He goes to my sister's place in the country at the weekends. My niece and nephew don't have a dog of their own, so they borrow Getreu when they go away. Don't worry, we won't be disturbed.<<

Isabella opened another bottle of wine, but then insisted that we do shots of some absurdly disgusting East German cherry liqueur. I realised all of a sudden, how terribly, terribly drunk I was, and it was fucking _marvellous_. But as we settled together on the leather sofa, with the bottle of wine on the table between us, Isabella was looking at me very, very oddly indeed.

>>God, you are so fucking _handsome_ in those glasses << she said, with a very, very husky tone to her voice. And I looked at her, and then she looked at me, and next thing I knew, we were kissing. I don't really remember who made the first move - I suspect it was actually her, leaning forwards and putting her hands on the side of my androgynous jaw, and pulling me towards her - but suddenly we were really going at it, snogging like a pair of teenagers on her expensive leather sofa.

I have no excuse, really. It was drunkenness, mostly. But also just horniness, and loneliness, since it had been over a month since I last saw Flori, and weeks since we'd even spoken on the phone. And Isabella was really beautiful, and her skin was so soft and her mouth was so yielding and her breasts so firm, and I had forgotten, how electric and magic and marvellous it was, to make love with a woman.

We moved through into the bedroom somehow, though I can't remember getting through the door. And then we were rolling on black satin sheets - god, those 70s fashions, I loved them at the time, but they were so ridiculous - under an enormous silvery mirror that reflected back our beautiful bodies to one another. The mirror goaded us on, until I could no longer tell which was us, the girls on the bed, or the laughing girls reflected back in the mirror, pulling off one another's clothes, just to see how it looked. Breasts. Thighs. Smears of hair between our legs - god, the 70s, when we were still allowed to be so hairy! - mine pale, hers darker. We kissed, and we wrestled, skin feeling so good where it slipped against skin. I pushed my hips between her thighs, really rubbing up against her, wondering what it would be like to be a man, and actually penetrate her, but then I took her breasts into my mouth, pulling her nipples to attention, and she started to moan.

Another bottle of wine. This was champagne, I think, as it frothed and spilled all over us, and I found myself licking it off her, licking her everywhere, her breasts, her taut stomach, that mound of hair between her legs. And then the scent of the feminine sex, oh god, I couldn't help myself, suddenly I was kissing her below and she was lying back on the bed, moaning aloud and clutching at my hair, holding me fast between her thighs. My fingers slipped inside her, as her flesh closed around me, sucking like a mouth as I thrust into her again and again, sucking at her in time with her frenzied cries. She bucked against me, harder and harder, as if wanting to impale herself on my hand, as her cries reached a crescendo, then she fell back still, panting, sated.

>>Oh my god<< she murmured, collapsed back against her pillow. I removed my hand gently, wiped it on the sheets, then moved to join her, kissing her face tenderly, but she was already asleep. I sighed, thinking this was just like Ralf, then retrieved my glasses from where they had been cast, placing them gently on a little table by the bed which had a shelf just the right size and height for glasses. Looking about me, I found the black satin eiderdown, and pulled it over both of us. I, too, didn't fall asleep so much as I just passed out, my arms still wrapped around her slender waist.

\----------

When I woke, I wasn't entirely sure where I was. There was a body lying half-crumpled against me, its back to me, but it smelled wrong. Every smelled wrong. I stank of sex and sticky spilled wine, but it wasn't Florian's scent at all. In fact, it was unmistakably a woman's scent all over me, all over my hands, all over my face. Oh god, what had I done?

For a moment, I just lay there, feeling a dull throbbing in my temples that would probably turn into a hangover in a few hours. But as I rolled over only my back, the figure beside me shifted slightly. >>Ralfi, darling if you're awake, would you please be so kind as to fetch me some aspirin?<<

Ralfi? What on earth? I cleared my throat and tried my voice, which sounded absolutely wrecked with cigarettes. >>I'm not Ralf?<<

The figure in bed next to me turned over and pushed its long, tawny hair out of its face, revealing Isabella staring up at me in shock and surprise, her eyes all ringed with the panda-bear remains of the previous night's make-up. Slowly, in bits and pieces, after a thirty-second delay like one of Flori's weird echo effects, memories came seeping back like an unwelcome drain problem. Kissing Isabella in the living room. Stumbling into the bedroom, tearing one another's clothes off. Rolling around on the bed together. Oh god, burying my face between her legs and sucking her to orgasm. Oh god. I had fucked Isabella.

>>I'm sorry.<< She blinked slowly, and as she looked around for her cigarettes, I wondered if she was apologising for the mix-up, or the whole previous evening, or both. Not finding them, she smiled apologetically. >>It's just that you look so much like him.<<

>>Really, I don't<< I protested, feeling suddenly doubly awkward.

>>Actually, with your hair long, and with glasses, I'm afraid that you do.<<

>>Where are my glasses?<< I asked stupidly, touching my face. Where were my clothes was a better question. Where was my self respect was one I didn't want to think about.

>>Ralfi always puts his on the little shelf under the night stand. Try there<< she suggested, standing up and going to the cupboard to find a dressing gown, which she wrapped around her slender frame. >>Do you want some aspirin, too?<<

>>Yes, please.<< The glasses where right where she suggested they might be. I put them on, but though the world looked more in focus, it didn't seem to make any more sense. Casting about, I found my dress, and pulled it over my head, but my knickers and my bra were nowhere to be seen.

I followed her back out into the open plan main room, and saw that she had put the coffeemaker, and stared at it dumbly until she returned, carrying a bottle of aspirin. >>The bathroom is through there if you need to use it.<<

I took a few more minutes than I really needed, to try to compose myself, splashing water on my face before staring at my face in the mirror, trying to spot this resemblance to Ralf that I never could see. Then I gratefully returned to the kitchen area to gratefully accept a coffee and two aspirins.

Feeling a bit more fortified, I decided to take the bull by the horns. >>Isabella, about last night...<<

She turned towards me, her face very stern. >>Jan, I like you a lot, but I am not _lesbische_ << she said quickly.

>>I know<< I said, remembering how she had seized onto my hair and held my face between her thighs, screaming aloud in excitement and joy.

>>You have clearly done this before, though. Are you bisexual, like Ralfi?<< So he had, at least, told her that.

>>I love Florian<< I insisted firmly, not really answering her question.

>>Well, it's not like it's really cheating, is it?<< she said lightly, flicking through empty cigarette boxes until she found one. >>A girl with a girl, I don't think it really counts, do you?<<

>>I don't know that Florian would take that view<< I said coldly.

>>Oh, but Ralfi would. In fact, I already know what he would say. _Oh my god, you two had a fuck, and you didn't even let me watch?_ I think he would be pleased. <<

I looked down at my coffee, thinking that after two years, I wasn't even sure that she really knew Ralf.

>>Anyway, I am taking a break from Ralf. So there is no need to tell him anything.<< She paused, looking down at her coffee. But then she brightened and smiled briskly, as if composing a story to cover for us. >>Look, we got a bit carried away last night. We'd both had far too much to drink, and we did things we both regret. I see no reason to make a fuss out of it.<<

>>We won't do it again<< I assured her, and we both nodded our assurances.

I found my shoes and fastened them on my feet, but it felt very strange wandering through breezy mid-morning Düsseldorf without my knickers or my bra, so I caught a bus home. Lying down on my marital bed, I put on a tape of _Ralf und Florian_ , thrust my face into an abandoned cardigan that no longer smelled the faintest thing like Weleda, and did my best to get myself off with my fingers and my imagination. I had to watch myself more carefully, not let loneliness and horniness get the better of me. I would not let things get out of hand with Isabella again.

And yet, when she rang the next week to invite me to dinner, I found myself saying yes. After all, we were friends, and in the same situation, with our lovers off abroad. And when she suggested a second bottle of wine, even knowing what that would lead to, I said yes. And before the waiter brought the check, as she leaned over put her hand very furtively on my knee, moving it up my thigh to give me a squeeze, and asked me if I wanted to come round for a nightcap, I said yes, yet again.

We were barely inside her flat before we started kissing one another and pulling one another's clothes off. And before I knew it, we were both naked and rolling around on that big bed, though the sheets this week were dark silver. And there was my head between her legs again, sucking, sucking, sucking as she clutched at my hair and cried aloud. But this time, as she rolled over, sated, and started to go to sleep, I would not let her rest.

>>God, you are more selfish than Ralf. What about my pleasure?<< I asked, light and teasing, but still quite serious.

Her china-blue eyes widened slightly. >>I wouldn't know what to do.<<

For a moment, I tried to imagine her lapping at me like a kitten, but then I just laughed. >>Give me your hand.<< I took her little doll-like fingers and placed them between my legs, but really, it was just like getting myself off when it came down to it.

And in the morning, the same song. >>I am not _lesbische_ << she insisted. >>I'm not even bisexual. It's just that... well, you look so much like him.<<

>>Honestly, I do not.<<

She walked over, and put her hands on my mouth. >>You do.<<

The third time, she didn't even bother taking me out to dinner. She just rang me and told me >>Come round the house. Bring wine.<<

We drank a little over a glass each, each of us staring at each other, as she sucked down her drink greedily, as if trying to build up the courage to do what we both knew she wanted. She was as greedy as Ralf sexually. I had no idea how the two of them must have made love together, as each of them was really only interested in their own pleasure. But god, she was so beautiful, and I was so lonely and so desperate.

The fourth and fifth times, we didn't even get drunk. Half a glass of wine a piece, just to provide some justification for our lusts, and then she would stand up and walk into the bedroom, and I would follow, absolutely desperate and gagging for the sensation of someone's naked skin rubbing and wrestling against mine. Just her voice on the line, late at night. >>Come round and fuck me, OK?<< and I would be on my bicycle heading down to her loft. In the morning, I would cycle home, resolving never to do it again.

But the last time, I meant it. I cycled home, and saw a flashing light on the Telefunken. And when I hit play, there was Flori's voice, spilling out of the tinny speakers, sounding very far away.

"Hallo! Hallo, it is me! Here is Florian. Are you there?" As if that distinctive voice could really belong to anyone else. And then, abruptly, he switched from English to Germany. >>Little Mouse, please can you pick up if you are at home? I need to speak to you, it is quite urgent.<< There were a few seconds of very noisy, very expensive silence, filled with hissing and static, then his voice sounded defeated and slightly hurt. >>Well, I don't know where you are, then. I don't know when I'm going to get the change to ring again. I shall have to try again. I think our next day off is next Tuesday, but I'm not sure. Speak to you later.<<

My face burned with shame as I sunk down to the seat, and played the message over and again. There was no way of saving messages on that old fashioned Telefunken, so I knew the next person who rang would erase the message, and yet I wished I could somehow capture his voice and store it. The tape was the wrong size, though. It wouldn't play on the Phillips tape deck, or the reel to reel. Flori felt like he was slipping further and further away from me.

The next time Isabella rang, sounding more than slightly drunk already, I told her firmly but politely that I could not come round any more. She swore at me, and hung up the phone, and I felt like a rat, but I knew that I had to end it. It bothered me, not just that I felt like I was cheating on Flori, but that she only wanted me because of some passing resemblance to her boyfriend. She would forgive me, no doubt, when the real Ralf came home again. (Maybe, indeed, I did not know Isabella as well as I thought.)

On Tuesday, I stayed home, and stayed within earshot of the phone all day. I stayed up late, thinking of the time difference between American and Germany, and trying to remember if Power Station would have been on the East Coast or the West. But the phone did not ring. Flori did not call back, and I hated myself even more for missing the last call.

On Wednesday, at 3pm, just at the time that America would be waking up, the phone bleated so loudly I nearly jumped out of my skin. I leapt on it, and heard the click of the long distance operator and her American accent announcing "Long distance phone call from New York State."

"Yes, yes, yes" I said happily, and waited for the voice of my beloved.

"Jan, is that you?" A completely unfamiliar voice, American, with the hint of a slight French accent. Not Florian. Not Florian at all. "It's Benoit here. Sorry to phone you rather than write, but it's just such excellent news, I wanted to tell you as soon as possible."

"Benoit" I stuttered, feeling my heart rate returning back to normal. "Hello, yes, how are you?"

"I'm great, Jan, but tell me, are you sitting down? Because you should probably sit down, OK." I did as I was told, even though my disappointment was so great that I had to admit I was not even mildly curious about his news.

"I got the funding, Jan. They approved my whole budget. We are _go_."

"What budget?" I blurted out, feeling very foolish.

"The budget for my Fractal Exploration Team. Do you remember, I was telling you about this project at the conference? Well, it's come through. I'm going to be getting a new mainframe, state of the art equipment, full colour monitors, 4-colour printers, and the salaries - very competitive, I might add - for a team of three to staff it and do the development. We are going to map the Fractal Universe."

"Oh, that's wonderful," I stuttered, casting my mind back to remember the incredibly jet lagged and hungover conversation over dinner the last night of the conference.

"Do you remember how I said I wanted a computer engineer, a mathematician, and an artist, a visionary, to guide what creative uses this thing might lead to? Well, Jan, I am very, very pleased to make you a preliminary offer. I would like you to be on that team. I want you as my artist and visionary. So you tell me what we need to do, to make that happen." Benoit's voice came out a fast-talking New York rush, so fast I could not entirely process what he was trying to say.

"Congratulations, that's wonderful news for you," I managed to stutter. Suddenly, everything snapped into focus again, as I remembered. The interdisciplinary team, combining scientists and artists, exploring the future together. I felt a sudden, strange fizzing in my brain, as if I couldn't quite let myself believe what I was being asked.

"It is wonderful news, but tell me, Jan, will you be on my team? I want only the best, and quite frankly, you are the best."

"What? I don't know... Where is it?" I felt all dazed, as if the fizzing excitement in my brain was like a bottle of Sekt that had been shaken up and left half-corked.

"It will be in New York. Well, not in the City proper, but in Yorktown Heights, near the IBM headquarters. about an hour Upstate. Easy commuting distance from the city."

"New York? I can't go to New York, Benoit, I don't even have a visa!" The fizz had pushed the cork out of my brain, and I was just babbling without really knowing what I was saying. I don't know why that was the first thing that popped into my mind, but Benoit seized on it like a dog with a bone.

"Not a problem. This is IBM, you're talking about, and you have a specific skillset that no one else in the world has. We sponsor you, get you a Green Card, get you out here, fast-track. We can get your husband a spousal visa, too, no problem. Though if I recall correctly, you said he was already working in the States? So that's two birds, one stone."

"He's on tour in the States," I corrected. My fizz of excitement went suddenly flat. Flori would never move to New York. Living in Germany, being a German was as important to him and his music as eating and sleeping and breathing. Of that, I was certain. Or was I? He had been on tour in the States for so long that he might have changed his mind. "Look, Benoit, he is away, on business, for another..." I glanced over at the Calendar, where I had been crossing off days with big red X's for seven and a half weeks. "For another three weeks yet. I can't make any decision without consulting Flori, I hope you understand that."

"He's a musician, yes, your other half? Look, he is going to love New York. Broadway, Ed Sullivan, Greenwich Village, the whole music industry is here. It's like Disney Land for artists and musicians. Honestly," Benoit urged me.

"I don't know" I said, feeling like I was hedging, feeling like I was maybe even just using Flori as an excuse. I had loved New York when I was there. If Benoit had asked me while I was there, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. And with my leaving the Atelier, what was there left to hold me? I closed my eyes, and the fizzing sensation was back, like a physical sensation of pressure building against the inside of my head. "You do know, that I have technically not even finished my degree yet. Isn't that a problem?"

"You already have a degree, from the Düsseldorf School of Engineering And Architectural-Building-Design-Something-Complicated-In-German. I have the CV you gave me for the conference program, and it says it right here."

"That's only an honourary degree" I protested. "The Kunstakademie is where I'm matriculated, and where I've been working..." The Algorithm had been my degree project. And I realised with a start, that in all the fuss over Benoit's conference, I had never told them that I had not only finished it, but published it as well. All I had to do was turn it in, though lord knew who my advisor was any more, as both Beuys and Emil were long gone. It had been months since I had even set foot in the place. I had no idea who the professors even were any more.

"Look, if you want to continue your education, IBM has an absolutely excellent lifelong education programme. We are partnered with Harvard, MIT, RPI, Princeton, Columbia, you name it, for both research and for education. If you want to take some courses - or even teach some courses - get your masters, get your PhD. So long as it's even tangentially related to our research, old Big Blue will pay for it. Have I made my point yet?"

MIT... that was where Rebecca had said she was going on to do her Masters, in a field so new it didn't even have a proper name yet, and still lived in a corner of the Architecture School. "That sounds amazing," I conceded. "But you do understand, I cannot even think about deciding, until my partner gets home from his business trip, and we have discussed it properly."

"Another three weeks yet?" Benoit asked. "Well, don't leave it too long. We are planning to open our new data centre in September. So it would be really good, if we could have you over here, plus visa, plus partner, plus whatever, by then."

"I will think about it. And Benoit... thank you." It still absolutely amazed me, how kind this new superstar scientist had been to me. Skillset that no one else in the world had... why did he say such flattering things to me? Computer Science was on the curriculum of most major scientific universities now, it couldn't be that hard for IBM to find someone who could code. And yet... moving to New York? It seemed impossible, like a dream come true. I could feel the excitement fizzing behind my eyes, like my entire bloodstream had turned to Sekt. And yet, I knew that Flori would never, ever go for it.


	63. Mercedes 600

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Power Station come back from tour, to newfound success as big stars in America. But Florian and Jan have a hard time adjusting to their new lives.

The next morning, I packed up my trusty old schoolbag with my papers, the journal in which my Algorithm had been published, and a host of other supporting evidence, then cycled down to the Kunstakademie to find out how I went about graduating.

>>When were you registered?<< asked the young woman in the office.

>>September 1970<< I confessed, feeling embarrassed about taking so long to get around to graduating. Five years. Had I really been in Düsseldorf five years? It felt like about five minutes and fifty million years all at the same time.

>>Ah, that's not so long ago. Your files won't have been transferred to long-term storage. They should still be in the office.<< The woman handed me a form to fill in.

Name, date of birth, matriculation date, all of that was easy enough to fill in. But then... Professor? I had no idea who my professor was now. I took a deep breath, then said aloud >>Joseph Beuys<< as I filled his name in, hoping that someone would have kept track who had taken over his students.

The woman took my paper, casting her eyes over it to check for errors. >>Oh god in heaven, you're the last of the Beuys Rebels! Congratulations for sticking it out. But my goodness, yes, they will be glad to get rid of you, ha ha ha.<<

>>Is this a problem?<< I asked nervously.

>>Oh no. It's just a bit of an embarrassment for the school now, you see. They sacked Professor Beuys for being a bit naughty with the open registrations, but now he is a very famous, internationally known artist, they want to reclaim him for the school. But to do this, they have to tidy away all the evidence of the scandal, and the easiest way to do this is to get rid of his students. So, as long as you have produced _some_ kind of project, I am quite certain that they will give you a diploma, so long as you go quietly. <<

>>So I can graduate? But do you know who will be examining my final project? Because it's a bit technical, and I may need to explain it.<<

>>I have no idea. I am sure it is quite beyond me. But I will submit your form, and go and find your file to attach, and you will receive a letter in the post telling you where and when to present yourself for examination. Are you still at the Tersteegenstrasse address that we have for you?<<

>>Yes, I am still there.<< I wondered as I said this, for how much longer I would be. A sudden panic gripped me. What if Flori said no to New York? Would I stay in Düsseldorf, or would I go without him? I didn't even like to think about it.

The three weeks dragged by. As the secretary had predicted, a letter came very quickly, telling me to present myself and my final project for examination, giving a date in late July, as they really wanted me to be able to graduate, if possible, with the current class. Blimey, that was close. After five years of study, how could it be so close? I wasn't ready, but then again, perhaps I was overripe.

I woke up one morning to another message from Florian on the answerphone. Well, that was odd, because the timestamp was four in the morning. I had been so fast asleep I had not even head the phone ring. Had Flori miscalculated the timezones? That really wasn't like him. A sudden chill shook me. What if he had actually been avoiding speaking to me? No, that was ridiculous, that was just me being paranoid. He didn't even know about the job offer in the States.

As I hit play, Florian's voice, in English, spoke very carefully and precisely, listing his flight number and time, and asking me to come and collect him at the airport. I immediately went to fetch a piece of paper and pen to write it down, before someone could call and erase the tape. It was only a few days away, now. Obviously, he had wanted to just call when it was cheap, and not bother with the mundane details in a proper conversation. But why did he want me to collect him? He knew I couldn't drive. I wondered if Ralf's sister was going to pick him up in the Beetle, why didn't he just go with her? Or had he and Ralf had a falling out? Ten weeks cooped up in hotels together, they might have just had enough of one another, and called it a day. For an awful, sick second I almost hoped they had, because that would make convincing Flori to go to New York a great deal easier.

And it was at that moment, as I felt the champagne fizz of anticipation rising almost to choke me, that I realised exactly how much I really wanted to go.

\----------

I took the train out to the airport. Really, I suppose I should have called Anke Hütter and asked if she was driving Ralf's little car to fetch him, and caught a ride with her. But I didn't have her phone number, and anyway, by this point, I was actually grateful for that last 40 minutes of solitude, staring out the windows at factories and power stations as the little tram-like light train rumbled through Neuss and Köln, and wondering how on earth I was going to break the news to Flori that I wanted us to move away from this beloved Rhineland he called his home.

I wandered about the airport, looking at the shops, wondering if Flori would bring us any Duty Free. In the 70s (it seems so odd to me now) you were allowed to wander right up to the gates, as a visitor, and watch people getting off the plane. So I stood, watching the plane be pulled up to the gate, feeling my excitement rise as I knew Flori was only a few metres away. The gates opened, and tired businessmen spilled out of the gate from first class. Then I saw Emil's curly head bouncing along behind a crowd of tourists, and stared to wave. Yes, there was Ralf beside him, still looking so strange to me with his short hair. And behind them, the percussionist twins, deep in conspiratorial conversation and laughing behind their hands like a pair of schoolboys. No doubt Wolfgang had been bothering the Air Hostesses on the flight home.

But where was Flori? I waved, and Emil saw me, grinning and heading over, but I could not see my lover. For a horrible moment, my heart lurched, but no, there he was, bringing up the rear with his distinctive loping gait, clutching a small suitcase tightly and dragging a large, heavy-looking box behind him on a little wheeled trolley.

Emil reached me first. >>Jan!<< he bellowed. >>All hail the conquering heroes! Number 25 on the American Top 40! Can you believe it? Number 11 in Britain, number 9 in Germany! Our boys are stars!<<

>>Congratulations!<< I told them, throwing my arms around Emil and hugging him. Ralf stopped in front of me, but did not hug. He was trying to play it cool, but he kept adjusting his trousers, as if something was bothering him. >>I'm so proud of you.<<

At last, Flori appeared, looking at me sheepishly. His face was worried, with a slight edge of guilt all over it, as he approached me apprehensively. Oh, so maybe he was feeling bad now about not calling me enough times over the past ten weeks! Good! But I was so relieved to see him, that I could not hold a grudge. I walked up to him, and for a moment, I just kind of looked him over, trying to sniff him out. He was very thin - Flori always lost so much weight on tour, as he would not eat unfamiliar food - and his suit was soft of hanging off him. But the familiar smell of him, unwashed and unshaved after the long flight, that reassured me. Yes, it was Flori, my Flori, back from the States, a successful pop star.

I could not even pretend to be aloof. I just walked up to him and put my arms around his waist and pulled him towards me. For a moment, he tensed, but then he allowed himself to be embraced. As I rested my face into that perfect little hollow just where his neck met his shoulders, inhaling deeply, he finally put his arms around my neck and clutched me against him, his face against my hair, sniffing at my scent. We embraced for a long time, not needing words, just holding one another, the sensation of our heartbeats slowly realigning themselves to one another after a long time apart. I couldn't bear it, to be parted from him again. There was no question of going to New York now. Düsseldorf was my home, yes, but mostly my home was here, pressed up against Flori's wide ribcage.

>>Come on, you starcrossed lovers<< laughed Emil. >>You can catch up on that later, we've got to get our luggage and find a taxi big enough for all of us.<<

>>Two taxis<< said Flori. >>We're going back to Golzheim, while you lot are going to the Berger Allee, and Ralf, I presume, to the Harbour Distict?<<

>>Oh god, time to face the music I guess<< sighed Ralf, adjusting himself again, and this time I noticed that he gave himself a little scratch.

>>Just go to a doctor, OK? It's very easy to get it sorted out. There's a very cheap clinic, in the Red Light District near our studio<< said Wolfgang, with a wink. Wolfgang didn't even bother to disguise the fact that he was scratching himself openly. Well. Clearly _someone_ had had a very good time in the States.

>>Look<< said Emil, who had clearly come into his own as a road manager on this tour, as the others actually turned around sharpish and looked to him for guidance. >>We are going to consolidate our luggage, and take one vehicle back to Düsseldorf, to the Berger Allee. Then you two can transfer to separate cars, or jump on a tram, or whatever you prefer, to continue your journeys. It is far more efficient that way.<<

We all headed down to the luggage carousels, where they collected various suitcases, but there was no sign of Wolfgang's specially constructed flight cases. >>Where are your instruments?<< I asked, worried, hanging onto Flori's arm.

>>They are being shipped over. Ralf and I will drive out to the depot to fetch them when they come in<< said Emil, collecting everyone's luggage and loading it onto a trolley.

>>How is your hand?<< I asked, turning to the beleaguered drummer.

>>Oh, it's fine now. Good as new.<< He showed me his thumb, which barely even had a mark on it. Then he noticed the glasses. >>Wait, wait, wait, what is this?<< Reaching out, he tried to take them off my face. >>This is not very attractive, Jan, you look like a man.<<

>> _I_ like them << I insisted, batting him away.

>>Did you know, our Ralfi got contact lenses in New York<< said Wolfgang in a gossipy, teasing tone. >>He has become very vain, since he is a big star.<<

>>He was always very vain<< I corrected, but as I turned to Ralf, with short, tousled hair, and no thick lenses on his face, I felt a strange shock. I had seen that specific look before somewhere. He peered curiously back at me, taking in the glasses with an odd expression.

Emil found a taxi - a small van, really, a people carrier that would take up to 8 passengers - and loaded the luggage into the back as we fought over seats. He really was enjoying this 'being in charge of everyone' thing. No one wanted to sit next to Flori for some reason, so we were stuck with the sound engineer I didn't know. I wished it was Peter, so I would have someone to talk to, but then again, Peter had helped me pack up for the conference, so it was good that he stayed.

Conversation was stilted for six men who had just come back from an extended journey, but I realised, as Flori sank his head down against me, that they were all completely exhausted. He was falling asleep, lulled by the gentle movement of the van as we entered the Autobahn.

"Well. We are fahr'n, fahr'n, fahr'n on our own Autobahn at last" said Ralf, showing off how much his English accent had improved.

>>Shut up<< said almost the entire van, in unison.

Flori and I found a taxi back to our apartment as the others were still squabbling over their luggage. Two small suitcases, and the large cardboard box came with us. >>What's in the box?<< I asked, peering at it behind us in the boot, though he kept the smaller suitcase on his lap.

>>An orchestra.<<

>>You can't have an orchestra in a box<< I laughed.

>>An _orchestron_ << corrected Flori testily. >>You'll see.<<

When we got home, he stowed the box on the dining room table, then carried the small suitcase into his father's office to lock it in the safe. Oh god, I thought, as I realised what must be in it. >>How much did you get paid?<< I asked, curious.

>>A lot<< said Flori, in a tone that indicated he would not discuss it further. I wondered if I should tell him how much I'd made from selling Weber und Schneider, but decided that news could wait. As could the discussion of New York, if he was in this kind of a mood. >>I am very tired, Little Mouse. I am going to bed.<<

>>Do you want me to go with you?<< I asked.

Flori looked at me very carefully, as a guarded expression closed across his face. >>If you like.<<

Feeling weirdly awkward, I followed him across the flat, watching him as he pulled off his shoes and socks, then took off his trousers and folded them across a chair. He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, but left his undershirt on, then climbed into bed. Honestly, we had not seen one another in ten weeks, and he looked like he was genuinely about to just go to sleep. Disappointed, and more than slightly annoyed (not to mention a little tiny bit guilty) I followed him into bed, and climbed on top of him.

>>Flori<< I said, I hoped seductively.

Flori opened his eyes and looked at me, that silvery-grey gaze completely flat. >>Jan, I am very tired. I am not sure how much good I will be to you.<<

>>I don't mind<< I said, reaching down between his legs, and feeling the relief of his familiar cock rising towards me as I grasped it. His face remained expressionless, but a recklessness took me as I joked >>Unless, of course, you need me to take you down to Wolfgang's little clinic first.<<

HIs expression changed totally, and for a moment - only a moment - sheer panic crossed his eyes. But as I pulled back, reeling, wonder what on earth it meant, that panic, and if I should be worried, he realised that I had seen it, and twisted his face into a smile. 

>>Don't be absurd<< he said, very quickly, and reached his hands up to clasp the back of my head, then pulled me towards him for a kiss.

We made love quickly, perhaps even perfunctorily, but my orgasm brought me relief, and his brought me peace of mind. Whatever it was that had happened to both of us, while he was away, it didn't matter. We loved each other, and that was what counted.

He slept for about two or three days; I just let him. I fed him well, I plied him with all of his favourite foods, until the hollows under his cheekbones and between his ribs started to fill out again. He held me, and pushed his face into my hair, inhaling deeply and whispering that he did love me, and I felt the two of us returning to our old shapes - or really, rather, adjusting to our new shapes.

He had changed, while he was on tour. I noticed it the first morning that he actually slept through the night, and woke up at a reasonable hour. Instead of sloping to the kitchen for a jolt of coffee, he found a small rug, then picked it up and dragged it outside, stretching for a bit before lying down and starting to do some strange new exercises.

>>What on earth are you doing?<< I asked, mesmerised by watching the knobs of his spine ripple back and forth as he moved.

"Sun salutations" he said, as he stretched up, then bent forward one way, then back the other.

>>What on earth are _sun salutations_? <<

>>Yoga<< he explained, as if this were the most natural thing in the world for a 28 year old German man to be doing. >>It's all the rage in California, you know.<<

I stared at him for a while, sipping my coffee as he wiggled and waggled, but just let him get on with it. I knew better than to argue with these strange American fads.

When he seemed brighter, and recovered from his jet lag, I told him about Weber und Schneider, leaving out the bit about Isabella's help, but recounting the story of how we had saved the shop. But as his face darkened, I realised he was not impressed, or even pleased, but absolutely furious. >>What?<< I demanded, when my story was through.

>>Only you, Jan, only you<< he snapped.

>>What, I've saved four people's jobs, and kept a space for the youth of Düsseldorf - oh, and made your father a killing, while I was at it.<<

At the mention of his father, Flori seemed to go a bit wild. >>Only you, Jan, would sell the profitable bit of your company, and keep the endless money pit that is forever running at a loss. I often suspected that you had no head for money. No head at all.<<

I recoiled, feeling very hurt. >>Well. You sound just like your father now.<<

His eyes flashed. I had wanted to hurt him as deeply as he hurt me, and I had clearly succeeded, as his face grew very stern. It frightened me when he went this silent, but then he turned, and walked towards the phone. I thought he was going to call his father, but it was a different name he asked for. >>Hello, is that Peter? Yes, yes, I'm good, how are you ... Wonderful tour, yes, very successful ... Look, why don't you come into town, and meet me at the studio in about half an hour, and I will tell you all about it ... yes, see you then.<<

He picked up the large cardboard box and put it on its trundle, then walked towards the door. But then he stopped and turned towards me. For a moment, I thought he was actually going to apologise, but instead he just fixed me with a furious gaze, then turned and walked out without a sound.

I was completely distraught. Wondering what on earth had gone wrong, I threw myself down on the bed and cried until I had no more tears. What had happened on that American tour, to make Flori so cold?

He was gone for about four hours. I made myself lunch to try to cheer myself up, but my appetite was completely gone. But by the time he came back, he was laughing and joking and pretending like nothing at all had happened that morning. The intercom buzzed, and when I picked it up, it was Flori's voice, completely delighted and overcome with excitement like a small child. >>Come downstairs, Little Mouse<< he urged. >>Come down and see what I've bought.<<

I was a little confused, but Flori had always been mercurial. Over the past five years, I had learned to ride out those strange and sudden mood swings, but they never stopped disturbing me, how he could switch, in only a moment, from fine to completely hateful and poisonous. And then, just as quickly, he could switch back to being as joyful as a little boy.

Nevertheless, I put my shoes on and made my way downstairs, somewhat apprehensively. Flori's surprises were... well, they were unpredictable. But what I saw, when I got downstairs and turned the corner into the drive, that was the last thing I would have expected.

>>It's mine now. Do you like it?<< he giggled, turning and gesturing to an enormous dark blue limousine, so large it took up almost the entire width of our building, the paintwork so shiny and luxurious that it nearly blocked out the sun. The Mercedes logo on the front was nearly the size of a dinner plate. >>Isn't it marvellous?<<

As I stared at that ridiculous, preposterous car, he walked around to the front, where Peter had the bonnet open, and was poking at the engine, cleaning bits of gleaming metal and almost cooing over it as if it was a baby.

I tried to keep my voice under control, as I moved towards it, almost afraid to talk in front of it. >>How much did that thing cost?<< I asked, my voice tight.

>>Twenty-five thousand Deutschmarks<< Flori announced proudly, taking out his handkerchief and polishing one of the side mirrors. His pride in the automobile was so palpable that I almost wanted to throw up. I barely recognised my partner any more. I knew that he loved _things_ , I knew he loved machines more than anything else, and I had grown used to the ARPs and the EMSs and the Moogs and the Orchestrons. But this, this was something new.

>>You spent 25,000 DM on a _car_ << I said, my voice almost stretched to the breaking point, just staring at the brutal, ugly thing outside our apartment.

>>It is not just any car<< insisted Flori, in his most pedantic voice. >>it is a Mercedes 600. This is the best car in all of Germany. The President of Germany, himself, does not have a better car than this.<<

>>25,000 DM<< I repeated. >>On a car.<< It must have been his share of the money from the tour, brought home in that little suitcase he'd locked in his father's office. Together, that money, and the money I had made from the sale of my business... We could have bought a whole loft, down on the lower tip of Manhattan, where Rebecca's cool friends lived. Hell, we could have bought a nice, mid-sized house out in the suburbs, somewhere pretty like Grafenberg or Benrath. But instead, there was this ugly German tank of a limousine. I _hated_ the car on sight. But what I hated more than anything, was what it said about the person that my partner was becoming.

>>She's a beauty, isn't she<< said Florian pointedly, and as he turned back to me, I saw his eyes flash again, and I knew I had not been forgiven for my casual remark. >>Shall we go and maybe visit my father, in my beautiful new car?<<

He was unbearable about that car. It was so awful to see, the shameful joy it brought him to show his father, and how he insisted on parking it outside the garage (it would not fit inside the little underground parking space that was assigned to our flat) every morning where his father would have to pass it, to go to work. And it was even worse, to see how he lorded that ugly, ostentatious car over his bandmates, Wolfgang and Karl, who did not seem to have been paid any more than the initial 5000 DM for that tour, even though it had been extended twice.

It did not help that Florian was a terrible driver. To be fair, Florian had always been a terrible driver. It was, in a strange way, part of his charm. That this gifted young man who was so good at everything else - music, programming, amusing little sketches and drawings - failed so completely at something so basic to the lives of every young German male. But there was a substantial difference between Flori being a terrible driver in a mid-size family car, or even his father's sporty little coupe, and Flori being a terrible driver in a car that was about ten feet wide and at least half a city block long.

But we did not quarrel over the car, though he certainly resented the dirty looks that I occasionally gave it. But god, it had actually been easier when I had been able to believe that the biggest threat to his heart was an ugly battleship of a Mercedes.

It all predictably kicked off over my graduation, and from that, somehow our entire lives unravelled. Flori had driven me down early to the Kunstakademie to set up, (parking in a no stopping zone on the busy street, so that I could unload, because obviously no one was going to tell _that_ battleship of a car to move) and I dragged my portfolio out of the boot. He blew me a kiss, and wished me good luck, and rattled off a list of places he might park the car to meet me later, then I walked with a heavy heart up to the entrance, feeling very judged by all the names of famous German artists carved above the door.

I was shown into one of the examination halls, with tall windows and very high ceilings, where there was already a panel of professors waiting to see me. Now obviously, there was no computer on which I could demonstrate my little algorithm, but I had printed out many of its creations, and even brought the little film-strip of the animation that I had designed to play at the conference. I had wondered if there would be anyone sympathetic to me and to my work on the computer, on the panel, but I did not recognise either of the two men who came to examine me, and the woman I knew only by sight.

Handing out the print-out of the code, I tried to explain how something so small could be so powerful. I needn't have bothered; they didn't understand a word of it, viewing these strange lines of instructions as some kind of arcane magical spell. But the images, those they liked, passing them back and forth between themselves and commenting on the elegant symmetries. And then the animation, yes, the animations wowed them, exactly the same as it had wowed Dr Mandlebrot's maths crowd at the conference. It didn't matter that they didn't understand the maths behind it. They recognised that it was beautiful, and that was what mattered.

>>You are supposed to have prepared an artist's statement for us?<< one of the men asked, expectantly.

>>Oh.<< I hadn't actually thought about that, as Beuys had always tried to impress upon his students that the best art did not need a statement to explain it. But I dug through my bag, and found the short speech that I had written for a completely different, and very technical audience at IBM. >>Here. You probably won't understand a word of it, but...<<

At that, the woman caught my eye and smiled. >>We almost never understand the Artists' Statements. That's kind of the point of them.<<

They went off to discuss the work among themselves as I bought a cup of coffee downstairs. I stuck my head out, wondering if Flori was still about, but that awful car was nowhere in sight. I had asked him to just park it on one of the side streets behind the school, but the car was so wide that if someone wanted to drive past, he would have had to move it, and anyway, Flori did not like staying on the backstreets with that car. Honestly, because I knew what he liked to do best with that monster, I suspected he had driven over to the Kö to parade it slowly past admiring shoppers, or double park it by the banks, where men in expensive grey suits would throw envious glances at it.

But the evaluation team came back in about fifteen minutes, and a secretary came out to find me. I walked back into the hall and sat down, awaiting my fate.

>>I can't begin to understand this code<< confessed the first man. >>And I can only guess at the implications of it, if it says what you say it does.<<

>>But in recognition of the print-outs you have supplied - and the animations, which are outstanding - we agree that you can graduate with the Class of 1975.<< said the other, peering up over his glasses at me.

>>Graduating with distinction<< added the woman, with a friendly smile. >>Congratulations, Frau Schneider-DeLay.<<

I didn't have the heart to correct her as I shook their hands and accepted their congratulations. But in the back of my mind, I couldn't help thinking of what the secretary had said: it was nothing to do with my talent or my hard work. They just wanted to get rid of any students who had been part of the insurrection in support of Beuys, and remembered how they had treated him.

I packed up my stuff and took it downstairs, wondering if this was the last time I would walk these hallowed halls. After all, I had no idea if German Universities did big graduation ceremonies, or if a little certificate would just come in the post. As I walked out of the grand front doors, I remembered the scared 18 year old textile student who had first walked in, terrified of her own shadow. School had let out of the summer, but I thought back and remembered the students I had passed on the stairs, when I'd come to fill out my forms. They had all looked so young. Or, at twenty-three and a half years of age, was I just prematurely aged?

I walked down to the Rhine, to a small cobbled lot opposite the Tonhalle, where Flori had said he would park the car if he was forced to move from outside the Kunstakademie. It was quite familiar, as Ralf sometimes used to park his little Beetle there when he was still driving in from Krefeld, as it was close to the Oberkasseler Bridge. In fact, I realised as my boot heels clicked against the cobbles, it was the same parking lot where I'd met Ralf and Flori for that fateful race out to Neanderthal, all those years ago. I'd made my choice that day, and got into the car with Florian. That had been the right decision, yes? Was I really doubting that decision, now?

I looked about for that awful blue Mercedes, but of course it was nowhere in sight. I walked up and down the lot twice, but you couldn't exactly miss a car like that. It was a mystery to me, how Germans had such a reputation for being so punctual, yet I had chosen the one German who was incapable of turning up on time, even if his wife depended on it. So I bought an ice cream from a stand outside the Tonhalle, in celebration of my graduation, then sat down to wait for my endlessly delayed partner. It was true, the evaluation had taken less time than the allotted appointment, but still, he was very late.

Although I gulped my ice cream down quickly, to stop it from melting in the warm July sun, I amused myself by watching huge container boats floating by on the Rhine. The river sparkled like gold in the sunlight, and I suddenly caught myself thinking just how _pretty_ Düsseldorf was, with the view of the twisted spire of the old church, and the palace tower giving way to the huge, spindly suspension bridges, with their long cables like angel wings (like my old dress, from our very first fashion show). In the distance, Paul's giant Mannesmann Hochhaus towered over the important buildings of the Altstadt, a sight that always made me feel oddly as if I were coming home, as I cycled along the river. Would I miss all of this, terribly, if I moved to New York? The smallness of it, its opulent and yet somehow understated elegance compared to the ostentatious dispay of New York, it seemed suddenly both very tame, and yet very familiar compared to the States.

After about 20 minutes, I heard a wheezing sort of sound like a dying duck, and looked up to see Flori waving at me from the front window of his tank. I had to suppress a laugh. That ridiculous macho car, a mile long, guzzling petrol like a elephant, and it had a horn like that?

>>Hallo<< he said, learning across the seat-backs as I tossed my bags and my box onto the back seat. The car was so wide I had to walk all the way around to join him in the front. >>So when do you find out how you did?<<

>>I passed. Graduating with distinction<< I told him with a little kiss, but soon I was sucking in a mouthful of air and clinging onto the door handle as he pulled out into the main road without even indicating. Then again, I supposed in a car that huge, who would be stupid enough to pick a fight with it? It would simply have rolled over and crumpled Ralf's little VW, though I suppose that was the point.

There was silence between us as he negotiated the tangle of traffic coming out of the parking lot, and tried to join Route 1 headed North towards Golzheim. >>Graduation<< he finally said, as the long green stretch of the Rheinpark came into view. >>How soon will they tell the Standesamt and end your long-term-student-visa?<<

>>i expect it will be a couple of months while the papers come through.<< There was a weird, butterflies-floating feeling in my stomach, like the conversation I'd been dreading having since he came home was about to happen. At least we were in the car, I thought to myself, which meant that he couldn't lose his temper too badly.

>>And then I suppose you expect that I should marry you<< he said, far more calmly than I had expected.

>>We should probably talk first<< I conceded. >>There is something I need to tell you.<<

>>Yes, I should think so.<< He turned and looked at me very carefully, his silvery-blue eyes looking very intense, almost angry for a moment, before he turned down a slip-road just before the Theodor-Heuss-Brücke, and drove into the park itself. The summer sunlight was so bright it seemed to dance off the water and hover in the air, but as we drove towards our fated conversation, I felt as heavy as if I were going to an execution. We never fought. All of our friends thought we had the most perfect relationship, because we never so much as even squabbled. But maybe that was the problem; we didn't even know how to fight.


	64. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything that both Jan and Florian got up to, while he was away on tour, come back to haunt them at the worst possible moments.

Florian chose a particularly beautiful stretch of the Rhine, with a small marina, and a series of houseboats moored alongside the drive. In the heat of the summer, I had often joked that we should move out of our sweltering apartment block, and into one of the cosy houseboats cooled by the river breezes. They were not little narrow canal boats, like I had been used to in England, but enormous constructions, entire bungalows deposited on floating platforms.

He parked beside the river, but neither of us moved to get out of the car. We both just sat, staring at the Rhine, until he started fiddling with the controls of the air conditioning. Although it was a warm, beautiful day outside, it was almost icy cold in that beast of a car.

>>OK<< I finally managed to choke out, feeling my heart pounding in my throat. >>Dr Mandlebrot has offered me a job.<<

>> _What_? << Flori turned towards me, confused, as if that were the last thing in the world he had expected me to say.

>>Mandlebrot has offered me a job. He's got some funding off IBM to start a new research team, and he wants me to be on it.<<

>>Who?<< Flori scratched his head, looking completely and utterly perplexed.

>>Doctor Mandlebrot<< I explained carefully. >>Benoit. You know, the American I have been working with, for the past year and a half, exploring and mapping and graphically representing his fractals?<<

>>Mandlebrot, as in the Mandlebrot of the Fractals? Your buddy Benoit with the impossible equations is _that_ Mandlebrot?

I turned towards him, gawping at him. The front seat of the Mercedes was so wide I could sit sideways, cross-legged on it, as I stared at my partner, wondering how little attention he had actually been paying to what I had spent the past year doing. >>Yes<< I said, rather facetiously. >>That Benoit Mandlebrot. It's good to see you have finally heard of the colleague I have been working with for the past... I don't even know how long.<<

Flori had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. >>We were following the story in the MIT Newsletter while we were on tour<< he said. And something clicked in the back of my mind at that moment, though I did not think to ask at that point - what on earth had Flori been doing, reading the MIT Newsletter?

>>Well, if you know what Fractals are, then you know what a big deal this is, and what an honour it is to have been asked to join the programme. This is the most exciting thing that has happened in mathematics in years, and he wants to use my algorithm - my little computer program, and my skills - to represent it graphically. You see, he needs a programmer with a lot of experience with graphics - who is familiar with designing and representing complex equations visually. And he needs someone with a very good sense of aesthetics, a good _eye_ , someone who has significant experience with design, with the world of art, and of making things look pleasing and interesting and yes, beautiful. The maths is very beautiful and elegant, so we need to represent this in beautiful and elegant visuals.<<

Florian turned back towards me, his face mingled with pride, with pain, and with something else - fear. >>This position sounds as if it had been made for you. I cannot think of anything that would suit you better. You must be very pleased.<<

>>There's a catch<< I said.

>>There's always a catch<< said Flori pragmatically.

>>The job is in New York<< I confessed. >>We would have to move to New York.<<

>> _We_ << said Flori pointedly.

>>Yes!<< I insisted, reaching out and taking his hand in mine, pulling it into my lap, where it lay like a dead fish, as I tried to rub my excitement into my partner through his skin. >>Flori, IBM are going to arrange for me to have a Green Card, so I can stay and work in the States. If we get married, there is a thing called a Spousal Visa, so I can bring you. So we can both go to New York.<<

As he turned towards me, Flori's face looked absolutely bereft, as conflicting emotions struggled across it. >>I don't want to live in New York. I want to stay in Düsseldorf. Düsseldorf is my _home_. <<

>>But you've been there now<< I insisted. >>You must have seen what it's like. It's amazing, Flori, the music, the nightlife, you can't tell me that you didn't enjoy...<< I could see from his face that he had, but there was something else in there, something very stubborn. >>Flori, this is my dream job. This is what I want to do with my life. More than designing textiles, more than studying programming, more than anything in this world.<<

>> _Anything_? << asked Flori, his eyes suddenly very vulnerable as he stared at me. I knew exactly what he was asking, and I did not know what the answer was. I had to turn away, staring out the window at the Rhine, glinting golden in the sunlight. It must have reminded him of another river, because suddenly he beat his fists against the steering wheel and let out a tiny cry. >>This is your Forst, isn't it?<< he said, when he finally composed himself and turned back to me.

>>I... I don't know.<< I confessed.

>>If I say I won't go, you'll leave me, won't you?<< As he leant his forehead down against the steering wheel, he turned towards me, and I saw the glint of silvery-blue beneath his pale eyebrows.

>>Flori, don't<< I sighed. >>I want you to come with me. It's only for four years, this project. Let's just get married, and go together. If you hate it, we can come home when the project is over.<<

Flori screwed up his eyes shut very tight, then pulled himself upright, with that very erect carriage he got when he was very tense. >>I don't know, that I'm ready to get married.<<

>>After five years, you still don't know?<< I almost laughed aloud.

But then he opened his eyes and turned towards me, and the expression in his face chilled me to the bone. >>I had an affair<< he said, so softly I almost didn't catch it. >>While Power Station were on tour. I had an affair.<<

I felt almost like I had been punched in the chest, so great was the shock, and yet at the same time, it wasn't a shock at all, as if I'd known all along. I didn't say anything at first; physically _couldn't_ say anything. I just sat there, staring down into my lap, feeling the pain roll through me; a sick, deadening kind of pain. But eventually I took a breath. And then another one. The pain was bad, but it was survivable. I clung on to just one thing. _I hadn't been the only one to mess up._ Then I finally spoke.  >>So did I.<<

>>I know<< he said darkly.

>>You _know_? << I raised my head and looked at him, and there it was. All of the betrayal and the pain and the cold fury written all over his face.

>>Do you know where I have been this afternoon?<< he asked, his voice very tight.

I shrugged, still not really trusting my voice to work. From the tone of his voice, it was obvious that he had not been showing off his ridiculous car, driving up and down the Kö.

>>I went to see Ralf. You see, I had not heard from him since we got back from the tour, and this, you know, is most unusual, for me not to hear from Ralf for over a week. At first, I thought perhaps, we had just spent too much time together while on tour, and he needed a break. But no, today, I thought, something is wrong. So I drove over to see him. I thought maybe I'd offer to let him drive my new car for a bit, thinking this would cheer him up. Ralf loves fast cars, as you know. But do you know what I found?<<

I shook my head slowly, not really wanting to know what on earth Isabella had told him.

>>Isabella had cleared out. When he got back from the tour, he found her completely gone. She had taken everything, right down to the walls. All of her clothes, all of her furniture, even the dog... gone.<<

>>She left him? Well, if he came home with the clap or whatever he caught on tour, I'm not surprised.<<

>>She left him _before_ he came home. She didn't know about the clap, or the girls he was with in the States. << There was the flicker of guilt across his jaw. >>He got home, and the bed was stripped down to the mattress, with just these left, quite deliberately, on top.<< Digging in his pocket, he pulled out my bra, and my knickers, the ones I had lost at Isabella's flat, the first night we fucked.

>>I don't understand<< I lied. >>Are those hers?<<

>>They are hardly her size<< he shrugged, tossing them on the seat between us. Although she seemed larger than life, through her sheer self-confidence, Isabella had always been tiny, doll-like, even smaller than Ralf.

<They could be anyone's<< I shrugged.

He turned towards me, his eyes icy. >>Do you take me for a fool? They are Marks and Spencer's. An English brand. I know them very well, I have taken them off you a hundred times.<< The faint sliver of a smile. >>Sometimes with my teeth.<<

I stared down at the knickers. I had bought them in Manchester, the last time I had visited my family, as I knew M&S were good quality, and lasted in a way that sexy German knickers from fancy boutiques on Schadowstrasse did not. >>Did Ralf recognise them.<<

>>No. I did not care to tell him. I saw no need to break his heart further.<<

I picked up the knickers and stuffed them into my carpet bag, relieved at least to have them back. But then, suddenly, there was the pain, as sharp as if I had trod on an electrode, a surge of burning fury and anger and betrayal shooting up my spine. And I saw at that moment, the corner I had backed myself into. At first I had felt a vague hint of relief that I had not been the dumb wife, just sitting at home while he played around. But now I saw the trap I had set for myself. By fucking Isabella, I had surrendered the moral high ground, and he now saw me as no better than him. >>You had an _affair_ << I just about managed to spit. >>You fucked some girl on tour, and yet you _dare_ to castigate me, for bringing Isabella a little comfort while her boyfriend was off screwing around? <<

Flori looked at me with that glare that could frighten fire, his lips contorting in his anger. >>I slept with a woman you have never met, and you will never know. But you... _you_ slept with the girlfriend of one of our closest friends. I don't think the situations are anything like comparable. <<

>>We were _drunk_ << I howled in rage and frustration. >>We were both so lonely, and so... so horny. Our boyfriends had been away for a month, and we were both half-crazy with frustration. While you...<<

>>What do you think I felt?<< snapped Flori. >>How do you think it was for me?<<

>>I don't know<< I sobbed. >>Tell me. Because Jesus fucking Christ, you are condemning me for Isabella, when I don't even know what you... oh my god.<< Now the tears were coming thick and fast, like my emotions were just spinning around, wildly out of control. Flori had cheated on me, was all I could think. Flori fucked some girl. Flori, my Flori, with his fucking dick, in some other girl.

>>Do you really want to know?<<

>>Yes<< I cried, even knowing that it would make me miserable. It would make me more miserable, not knowing. >>Tell me.<<

Flori took a deep breath, and wiped away something from his own eye, though if they were tears of anger or of pain, I could not tell. >>We met her on my birthday. One of the MIT maths students I told you about, who took us to the Science Museum.<<

>>Oh Christ, it was going on for that long?<< I felt sick to my stomach.

>>No!<< he insisted. >>It was completely innocent at first. We were just friends. It was nice to have such intelligent fans. This is why one makes music, after all. To meet people, and communicate, and connect. But then, a couple of days later, she turned up at another gig. I thought, oh, this is fun, it's nice to see a familiar face, so I invited her backstage, and we chatted. She was very bright, very bubbly, a lot of fun to talk to. And then she turned up at another performance. And another. I found out she was hitch-hiking from show to show, so I said, no, you must stop this, it is dangerous. Come on the bus with us. So she started travelling with us.<<

>>Oh my god, did your entire band know? All of them... Ralf, Emil... Wolfgang? Were they all laughing at me?<< I stuttered, feeling utterly humiliated as well as betrayed.

>>It wasn't _like_ that, well not at first. It was just fun, having her along. She is a native English speaker, so it was good to have someone along who knew the language, understood the customs and the conventions. She stopped us from getting taken advantage of and ripped off a couple of times, at petrol stations, at restaurants and the like. She taught us where people expected a tip, and where they didn't. That sort of thing. <<

>>So what changed?<< I demanded.

Florian shrugged sort of helplessly. >>We got drunk, at a party in California. I was so lonely... and so horny... I had been away from my girlfriend for six weeks, and we had grown very close, and she was so very beautiful...<<

>>Oh you fucking arsehole. I did not need to know what she looked like.<<

>>It just... _happened_. And once it had happened, I could not seem to convince her to go back to how things were. <<

Biting my lip, I stared out at the Rhine. There had been a once-upon-a-time, when I did not believe that things like that just _happened_. But that had been before I had been very drunk, on a leather sofa, with Isabella touching my face and looking at me like she wanted to devour me.

>>You, and Ralf, and Karl, and Wolfgang... just fucking your way across America, travelling on your dicks.<<

>>No.<< insisted Flori, quite strongly. >>Not like them. Karl and Wolfgang are young and immature, they do not have girlfriends, it is only natural for them to behave like this, when there are young women throwing themselves at them every night, begging them to do literally everything. But Ralf... It is like I have always told you. Ralf, despite his appearance of arrogance, he has a very weak ego. You have to understand, he has never been successful with women, not like I have.<<

>>Drunkenly fucking an impressionable maths student who is obsessed with your band. You call this successful with women?<< I sneered.

>>I did not mean that<< he said, then looked at me sideways, with the hint of a smile of pride that was so genuine it still took my breath away. >>I live with the most desirable woman in Düsseldorf. A woman so beautiful she has modelled on the pages of Vogue Magazine, and so clever that the most famous mathematician in America is head-hunting her. So, yes. For _this_ , I consider myself a _big_ success with women. <<

I stared at him, feeling my lower lip starting to wobble, as all my insides seemed to be swirling around and leaking out. How dare he just look at me like that, with that shy, hesitant smile, and make me feel like this, when I was still so angry with him. >>Do you still love me?<< I asked.

>>Yes<< he said, without hesitation. But then he paused. >>Do you still love me?<<

>>I wish I didn't. This wouldn't hurt so much if I didn't love you.<< If I didn't care so much about him, I would have... well, I don't know what I'd have done. Flown at him in a rage, beating at his chest, trying to scratch his eyes out? Coldly and icily got out of the car and slammed the door? But I could not imagine a world where I did not love Florian.

He smiled through tears that were starting to run a little more freely now. Florian never cried. _Never_. Not like Wolfgang, who cried with happiness if he saw so much as a pretty girl or a cute kitten.  >>I really don't want to move to New York, though.<<

>>No<< I conceded, understanding his reluctance now. How on earth could we even think of moving to a new city, a new country, with all of this so fresh? Would I ever learn to trust him again? And would he trust me? How long would that even take? Longer than programming one of Benoit's fucking fractals, and a lot more bumpy a ride. But despite everything, we were both of us still sitting in the car together, just staring at one another. >>I don't think we should. I think we should stay here and work on _us_. I mean... if you want to. If you still want to... go on with me. It isn't going to be easy, but... I don't know what else to do. I love you. How do we make this _right_ again? <<

He let out a deep sigh, as if he had been holding his breath. >>You are not leaving me, then?<<

>>No<< I said very quietly. 

He stared at me, his eyes quite bright again. >>I don't know how we make this right again. But I want this to go back to how we _were_ , if you do. I want things between us to be as they used to be, again.<<

I nodded slowly, feeling conflicting emotions of relief and anger and jealousy and guilt swirling through me like the wake of a great boat churning up the Rhine. Then, finally, he leaned forward and switched the ignition on the car, then put it into gear, then did a jerky, wide-angled three-point turn to point the car back towards home.

I sent Benoit a letter by air-mail, because I could not face speaking to him on the phone, as I knew how persuasive he could be, and I did not want to be talked out of a decision that I was still not sure of.

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the kind and generous job offer," I wrote. "But this is just not the right time for me. My marriage is on the rocks, and I do not think that it would survive a move to New York. I'm sorry, Ben, but my marriage is the most important thing in the world to me, and I have to do whatever it takes to put it back together. I wish you the sincerest good luck in your project, and if I can support you from this side of the world, I will do whatever I can. Kind regards, Jan Schneider."

A week later, I received a brief aerogramme in reply, saying that he was disappointed, but that he respected my decision. If I ever needed a professional reference, he told me, he would be happy to provide a glowing one.

And for the next few weeks, Flori and I tried very, very hard to be extremely nice to one another. At first, it was tense and brittle and strained. I didn't want him to touch me, even though I knew sex was one of the things that would have pulled us back together. But I could not get the thought out of my head, of his cock inside another woman.

The first time we made love, I closed my eyes and saw them together in my imagination, and just burst out crying, and had to stop. He had to hold me, stroking my hair and gently rocking me back and forth, for about ten minutes, before I was willing to try again. But I forced myself to do it, because I knew Flori. He might not be a very physically affectionate man, but he had come to like sex. He wanted an erotic, playful relationship, not a sad woman who hung about the house crying because she had just surrendered her biggest dream in life and didn't know what else to do with herself.

I tried going into the shop to cheer myself up, but things upstairs were strained. Slowly, I extracted the gossip from Lotte, between customers. Things had really changed at Weber und Schneider, once MSC had taken over. The first thing they'd done, was sack all of the seamstresses.

>>No!<< I gasped, wondering what had happened to Banu and her cousins, all those formidable Turkish women who could turn those champing, terrifying mechanical sewing machines into elaborate dancing things of beauty with their hands.

>>They brought in a team of movers, and carted all the machines off, down the stairs. Right nuisance it was, for our customers. They had to get a block and tackle up on the gable of the house to get the Jacquard Looms out.<<

>>Oh my god, they took my Jacquards? Those weren't even...<< I had been about to say those weren't theirs to take, but they had bought everything up there, lock stock and barrel. >>Christ, after everything we had to do to get them in, in the first place. But what's happened to Banu, and the machinist crew?<<

>>All gone. Nothing but offices up there now. All of the production has been outsourced to Taiwan. They can pay them pennies a day out there, and no one ever goes on strike or demands overtime when it's getting close to a deadline. Zaide really went on the warpath, but there was nothing she could do<< Lotte told me. >>The contracts were by piece, not by hour, so they just said there were no more pieces.<<

>>Ugh, I hate that they turned those contracts against them, when we fought so hard to negotiate them.<<

>>However, and this is just between you and me...<< She leaned in close. >>Some of them got jobs in a factory outside town. But Banu, she's too old for factory work. She's fine sitting down, but she can't work on a factory floor, standing for eight hours. So Zaide, she went and she moved heaven and earth. She actually drove down to Monaco to see Maxim Junior, burst into his office and gave him a piece of her mind. Said that her mother deserved a pension, that she had put in enough years. You see, there's a three month waiting period before you can start a company pension at MSC, and they sacked the seamstresses just before they qualified for any rights like that.<<

>>What fucking bastards<< I swore. >>I knew those people were no good. Never trust tax dodgers.<<

>>Well, I don't know what Zaide said to Maxim Junior, but he did it. He gave Banu a full company pension.<<

>>No way!<< Wow, I was glad that I had never got on the wrong side of Zaide.

>>And what's more, he gave Zaide a promotion. Said he liked her management style, said she was confrontational, but she really knew how to get things done. So now she's the boss. Promoted right over the top of Myrthe. And you can imagine how pleased Myrthe is about that.<<

Myrthe had never entirely liked Zaide; I think she thought that Zaide had manipulated Silke's departure to her advantage, despite the edge that she had brought to our newer styles. >>So what is Myrthe doing about it?<<

>>There's not much she can. She's got her hands full. Because, you see, they've brought in a dozen new designers, and installed them where the sewing rooms used to be. Myrthe didn't have a choice in hiring any of them, and she says none of them have any talent, any vision. They're just hacks, churning out copies of everything in the high fashion magazines.<<

>>You are kidding me.<<

>>If I didn't know any better, I would think that they were deliberately trying to force Myrthe out. She's too expensive, with her salary and her stock options. And if they make life miserable enough for her, they think she'll quit.<<

>>Myrthe won't quit. She won't leave this company, after building it up from nothing. She was always the one with the business sense, not me and Silke. This company would not exist - it wouldn't have _survived_ without Myrthe. <<

>>They've got all the might of the MSC business empire behind them. They don't need business acumen, they've got cold hard cash. And that's all they care about. I give this company two, maybe three years tops. Because they're not aiming their clothes at boutiques any more. They're aiming them at department stores, big chains. The Ready-To-Wear market. People will buy it for a season or two, because the name is trendy. People who could never afford a Weber und Schneider before, they can buy one at Hennes und Mauritz now. They'll make a lot of money, really fast, and then it will be over, when people realise the quality isn't there any more.<<

I stared at Lotte as we folded T-shirts together. >>Poor Myrthe. Should I go and...<<

>>I wouldn't.<< Lotte shook her head slowly. >>She has her pride. She won't tell you what's wrong. I think she's jealous of you, for getting out just in time. The stock prices keep going down, you know. I think the investors are wise to what their strategy is.<<

I ignored her advice; I went upstairs and said hello anyway. But she was right. Myrthe put on a brave face. She smiled brightly at me, sitting at her big desk in the office that had once been Silke's. But I looked at the drawings pinned up on the walls, and I knew that Lotte was right. They weren't originals, they were all copies. Things I had seen before, in fashionable shops on the Kö.

I didn't stay for long; I couldn't. It hurt me to see Myrthe looking so defeated, like a bird in a gilded cage. The look in her eyes haunted me so much that I went home, and found Flori and put my arms around him and squeezed for all I was worth.

And he stroked my hair, and clutched me close, and hugged me back, and looked into my eyes and said >>It's OK. We're going to make it, Little Mouse. Everything is going to be OK.<< At the time, I believed him. 

And for about a month, things were actually getting better. I started to believe that we were over the worst. Our sex life started to resurface, as we took joy in one another's bodies again. While his family were away in France, we went skinny dipping at the pool at his parents' house, and the sight of his sharp hips poking up out of the water as he floated on his back, it sent a shudder through me. Florian was _beautiful_. How could I have forgotten? We started acting like a couple again, buying groceries together in the market, and laughing over private jokes. The smile he gave me when he found a small, expensive fresh pineapple, and ceremonially placed it in our shopping cart like a personal in-joke, it melted my heart. I started to actually act like there was a _Florijan_ again.

I saw her first in the shop, though I had no idea who she was at the time. Heidi pointed her out first, as I was working the till on a sultry August afternoon, and she was DJ-ing, playing something from the new Cluster album, Zuckerzeit, which of course I still was not allowed to play at home.

>>That girl can't stop staring at you<< she noted with a raised eyebrow and a smile.

>>What girl.<<

>>That girl by the record stacks. She's been pretending to look through the K section for half an hour, but she hasn't bought a thing. She just keeps staring at you.<<

>>Oh god<< I sighed, trying not to make eye contact as I glanced over. >>Is she a groupie or a fashion rat?<<

>>I can't tell<< said Heidi, but as soon as I looked over, she immediately turned around. All I saw was a wall of very straight, very black hair, bobbed just to her shoulders. >>She's pretty, and well dressed - expensively dressed - too expensively dressed to be a groupie, I'd think.<<

>>Well, I don't like being gawked at. I'm going in the stock room for a bit.<< I let Heidi take over the register as I went in the back to unpack and price a fresh consignment of clothes that Johannes had delivered that morning.

When I came back out, half an hour later, Heidi was smirking at me. >>Tourist. American, I think. Well, American or Canadian. They have those strange accents, though she barely spoke German. All she wanted to know was about Power Station. My god, we should set up a tour and charge admission.<<

>>What did she want to know?<<

>>Oh, you know. The usual. Where do they hang out, where can you see them, what clubs do they dance at, where do they drink.<< Heidi shrugged.

>>And you told her?<< I gasped.

>>Come on, what harm can it do? Anyway, she's small, dark, and very, very pretty. Exactly Wolfgang's type, so maybe she'll get what she wants after all.<<

>>How do you know what they want?<<

>>It's what they all want<< shrugged Heidi. >>Emil told me. They make an absolute spectacle of themselves, throwing themselves at Power Station. Can you imagine? Our nerdy old boys, sex symbols in the States. Ha!<<

I glared at her, but she had no way of knowing the problems in my relationship. Or did she? I had no idea what any of them knew, even Emil. Flori had assured me that they had been very discreet. He shared a room only with Ralf, and Ralf had usually been otherwise occupied.

But oh Christ, wouldn't you know it? She turned up, that Friday night. The Power Station gang had all met up in a bar by the Rhine, where we gathered to meet whoever of our friends wanted a ride over to the Kö in Flori's ostentatious Mercedes, to be assured of gaining admittance to the very best nightclubs and bars. That night, we had decided to go to the most exclusive new nightclub, on top of a hotel just off the Königsallee, so upscale and elite that they actually had not just a doorman, but a young assistant to whisk the fancy cars off to a garage, so you could be dropped off to make your grand entrance just at the door.

Power Station, on returning from the States, were now so well-known that we rated the full concierge treatment, the velvet rope being whisked aside so we could jump the queue. I don't actually know how _she_ got inside - but really, of course I did. She was pretty, exotic, and extremely fashionably dressed, so of course the doormen let her pass. It was girls like that, that drew the attention and the wallets of young men like Ralf and Wolgang, out on the prowl.

>>There's that girl again<< said Heidi, in a sing-song voice.

>>Oh god<< I sighed, rolling my eyes, but this time, at least, I got a good look at her. She was small, petite even, with a very neat figure that she showed off in the same kind of form-fitting 60s-influenced clothes that we all liked to wear. The swishy, shiny black hair came attached to attractive, milky-tea coloured skin, and huge, almond-shaped eyes in a soft fawnish brown. I thought Heidi had said she was an American tourist, but this girl looked Asian, Desi of some kind. But she had lied when she said she was just pretty; this girl was absolutely startlingly beautiful. She could easily have been a model, had she been about a foot taller.

But as if realising she was being watched, she turned, and our eyes locked together. For a moment, we just stared at one another, me perplexed, and her startled, like a deer in the headlights, with those huge, baby-animal eyes. She smiled tentatively, almost apologetically, but abruptly, I felt Flori tense beside me, grabbing me roughly by the arm and snatching my attention away.

>>Don't stare!<< he hissed. >>You don't want to attract her attention.<<

>>What?<< I stuttered, disoriented. I hadn't even started properly drinking, I'd had only one gin and tonic at the Bagel, but I felt dizzy, like my blood was pounding in my ears.

>>What is she doing here?<< he demanded of Ralf, who had also noticed her at the same time, and gone distinctly pale.

>>I don't know<< shrugged Ralf, and then he looked back at me, and his face just crumpled. At that moment, my stomach lurched.

>>Oh my god<< I stuttered, feeling all the blood drain from my face as my head started to spin. >>Is that _her_? << I stuttered.


	65. Sandhya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Florian's other, American girlfriend turns up in Düsseldorf, Jan is forced to confront what she really wants from her relationship, and her whole life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder again, that this is fiction. This is complete fantasy and fabrication.
> 
> Whenever pop stars' real life partners turn up in my stories, I always feel like I have to remind my readers - and maybe myself - that this is solely intended as fiction.

>>It can't be her<< said Ralf, moving quickly towards me, and taking my other side, so that I was sandwiched between the two men, though whether this was for safety or diversion, I could not tell. >>What on earth would she be doing here?<<

But when I turned back to get another look at her, the American girl had gone.

Flori was almost in a panic. >>We can't stay here. Let's just leave. Let's go to Köln, the nightclubs are less snobby and more fun there, anyway.<<

"Flori! Ralf! So good to see you guys here. I was afraid I was going to miss you guys." A girl's voice, with a distinct American accent, so close she must have been standing right behind us.

Flori almost jumped out of his skin as she walked up and hugged first Ralf, a bit stiffly, then Flori, with a warmth and intimacy that left me in no doubt who she was. Flori didn't like to be touched. He didn't allow anyone to hug him, except his sisters, his mother, and me. And yet this woman was hugging him, standing on her tip-toes to squeeze him tight, and he was just standing there taking it.

"Sandhya," he said, finally extricating himself from her embrace and pulling away from her, shooting a terrified glance in my direction, before staring down at her with an intense expression. "What are you doing here?"

"Summer vacation, sweetie. I thought I'd fly out and check out this famed Düsseldorf scene you guys were always going on about. I gotta tell you, the music is not as good as New York or Boston, but the clothes? The clothes in Europe, they are fabulous. I feel like I have found my spiritual home. I was just in London earlier this week, and people told me to check out this fabulous new designer... Vivian Westward, and..."

"Westwood," I corrected testily. "Vivienne Westwood."

"Well, she's _fabulous_. Have you seen her? Absolutely amazing stuff, it just knocked my socks off." She bubbled on at speed, in that sharp American accent of hers. And on one level, I understood it. For a shy, somewhat reserved man like Flori, that extraverted stream of chatter must of been such a relief, because a conversation with her must not have taken very much effort on his part at all. But as she realised I was staring at her, with an expression that must have been poisonous, she turned to me and looked at me carefully. "You look really familiar. Have we met before?"

"Oh, I suppose I bloody well ought to," I almost snapped. "You were in my shop yesterday, staring at me for half an hour."

"Oh." That stopped the flow of chatter for about fifteen seconds. "Well, you see, everyone told me, if I wanted to get the real flavour of Düsseldorf counterculture, I should go and check out this shop called Weber and Schneider. It took me a while to find it, because the shop's not actually called that, that's just the name of the design studio upstairs. But yeah, I found it. And it was cool, and you know, you looked like you _belonged_ to the shop. Or the shop belonged to you. You know what I mean. Anyway, I thought you might be an owner, so I was trying to work out if you were Weber or Schneider."

"I am Schneider," I said icily, snaking my arm around my partner's waist and tightening my grip. "Jan Schneider."

"Oh," she said, her face a perfect round O of embarrassment and surprise.

"Florian's wife," I added.

For a long time, neither of us spoke, but her eyes were fierce as she looked across at Florian. "You told me you weren't married," she accused, very, very softly.

Florian didn't speak. He just looked back and forth between us, like he wanted to sink through the floor. The young woman looked so discomforted, and I felt like such an ogre, making those pretty Bambi-eyes take on that expression, that eventually I spoke, just to put her out of my misery. "Technically, we're not. Not yet. But only technically, on account of a complicated German visa-thing."

Relief flooded her face, and I wanted to slap her. "Oh, tell me about the complicated European visa thing. I just had to do an application for a British student visa - did I mention I was doing a semester abroad at Cambridge, this coming fall? - and my god, the application was more complicated than the SATs."

"Cambridge?" I stuttered, feeling the bottom dropping out of my world. A groupie, far away in America, on the other side of the world, was not that much of a threat, though I had to admit, fear of being in the same part of the world as her had been a substantial part of the reason I had caved so easily on going to New York. But Cambridge? Cambridge was far too close.

"Yeah, it's supposed to be the best school in Europe for Maths, but I really didn't think much of their entrance exam. Piece of cake, really, like I can't do a little Differential Calculus? Come on," she laughed. "But the good thing is, it means I can now come to most of the dates on the British tour this fall - or at least the ones that are accessible by public transport. But Yeovil... do you guys know where the hell Yeovil is? I couldn't find a train, so I'm going to have to ask. Can I catch a ride on your bus to those gigs?"

I dug my knuckles into the soft part of Florian's back, glaring at him, until he finally spoke. "Aaah well, sooo... I don't know. You will have to ask Emil."

"Oh, I'm sure Emil won't mind," she laughed in a sing-song voice.

"Florian," I said, very quietly, but he ignored me. "Florian!" But he wasn't looking at me, or at her, he was staring off, up into the discoball on the ceiling, like he was wishing himself somewhere else. "Florian, I don't feel very well, and I really want to go home," I insisted.

"Oh, that's a shame," said Sandhya, as her face lit up. "But never mind. Flori and I can catch up, can't we Flori? Maybe we can get them to play some Donna Summer on the dance floor - God, Flori can really cut a rug. You would not know it to look at him, because he is so shy, but he is a _really_ good dancer." She didn't quite take him by the arm, but she kind of beckoned to him, and he actually moved towards her.

"Florian," I hissed, and at that moment, I hated myself, because there we were: me, the jealous wife, throwing a hissy fit, and dragging him off to spoil his fun, while there was Sandhya, young and exciting and up for dancing and excitement. Of course he would choose her. I would have chosen her.

Finally, he looked up at me, though he shrugged kind of helplessly, and lowered his voice, speaking quickly in German. >>I'm just going to have one dance with her. And then I'll put her off. I'll tell he how it is, and I'll... well, I'll get Emil to tell that she can't come on the bus. She'll understand.<<

>>Just tell her to piss off, and go home, and she can't come on the tour<< I spat.

>>I can't. That would be rude. She is a fan, and she has been very, very nice to us. I am not going to...<<

I just stared at him.

>>Listen, I will warn Emil, and tell him to tell her that she can't come on the bus. He's very good at handling that kind of thing. Now it's just one dance, Jan, please don't cause a scene.<<

I turned around and I fled. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want to stay in that over-warm club, with everyone staring, and everyone watching, my partner on the dance-floor, with a girl that his entire band knew he had screwed... and I had been the one to teach him how to dance in the first place! I ran. I picked up my handbag and I just ran, out of the room, down the grand staircase, out of the door, and all the way out onto the street, the heaving sidewalks of the Königsallee, still crowded with people trying to get into the nightclub. Outside, in the cool air, I stopped to get my bearings, digging in my tiny ornamental purse to see if I had the money for a taxi. Of course I didn't; I had assumed that we would drive home in the Mercedes. But there was just enough change to scrape together for the tram.

>>Jan! Oh there you are... wait up, Jan.<< I turned to see Heidi emerging from the club. >>Just take a deep breath, and come back inside. I spoke to the bouncer, so he'll let us back in.<<

>>No<< I insisted, with defiance sharpened by wounded pride.

>>It's not like you to be so bent out of shape about some starstruck little fan.<<

>>She's not a fan, she is a groupie. An actual groupie.<<

>>Honestly, Jan, you have nothing to worry about. Flori's terrified of her. He won't even speak to her. He just stares up at the lights and goes all dumb.<<

>>Oh god.<< I stared at her, feeling all of the colour draining out of my face. That was exactly how he had behaved when he had first met me, at the Creamcheese Club, at the pool party, at the Kunsthalle gig. Both Anni and his sister had said the same thing - that was how they knew he was in love. When he clammed up and refused to speak to a girl. >>I'm going home.<< I insisted, whirling about and heading up the street. If I hurried, I could still catch the last tram.

Heidi pulled up her fashionably long, floor-length skirts and came trotting after me as I stalked off towards the tram stop at the bottom of Heinrich-Heine-Allee. >>Well, I'm going with you, then. You're acting so weirdly I'm starting to think you're coming down with something.<<

The tram came, and we clambered on, digging for change to put in the ticket machine, then we sat in silence, all the way back to Golzheim. I rang the bell as we passed under the Theodor Heuss bridge, then got out, striding up Tiergartenstrasse towards our building. Heidi followed, trotting in her high heels to keep up with me. 

It was probably best that she came with me, as had she not been there, I might have been tempted to go round the flat, smashing up everything I could see of Florian's. But as it was, I started pulling cardboard boxes out of the spare room - Florian had enough of them, from various bits of equipment he had bought over the years - and started packing up my things, my books, my notes, my records, my clothes... oh god, I had so many clothes. How many clothes could one human being accumulate over the course of five years? I had filled every single one of Paul's mirrored closets with my damned clothes.

>>Well<< I said, pulling out a rack and starting to go through it. >>Maybe Aufhalten can start selling second-hand clothes, because most of this is designer stuff. It's got to be valuable.<<

>>What on earth are you talking about? Jan, what are you doing? Have you gone completely mental?<< She stared, uncomprehendingly, at the boxes as I filled them.

>>The Bowie records are mine<< I said, going through the stacks patiently. >>Well, technically Klaus gave _The Man Who Sold The World_ to both of us, but the rest of them were gifts to me, and I'm taking them. The tape deck, though... that was a gift to him. He can keep it because... oh god. Where am I even going? I don't know what kind of electric mains I will be having to deal with. <<

>>Jan, is there someone I can call?<< said Heidi, quite convinced I was having a nervous breakdown. >>Can I make you a drink, will that calm you down?<<

>>Yes, I would like a drink. Whisky, please.<< I said calmly, and smiled at her, just to get rid of her for a moment, so I could think. Oh god, all of this stuff. What was I going to do with all of this stuff?

She returned a few minutes later with two glasses of Paul's scotch - well, he still gave us a large bottle every Christmas, to keep in case of emergency visits, but Florian and I always managed to drink it. So I sat and drank it, and she watched, as I went through piles of The European Computer Science Journal, trying to decide what to keep and what to throw away.

After about two hours, maybe longer, there was the soft hiss of the lift, and then the rattle of keys in the lock. Heidi stood up, but it was only Florian. I craned my neck to look behind him, expecting that girl to be there, but he was alone. Heidi walked over towards him and eyed him meaningfully. >>I think she's having a nervous breakdown. It's the pressure, of the shop, and finishing her degree and...<< She cast a worried glance over her shoulder back towards me.

>>She's not having a nervous breakdown<< said Florian, in his most reasonable voice. >>She's just very angry at me. Listen, thank you for looking after her, but I think you should go home. I can take it from here. Oh, and here... take a taxi.<< Pulling out his wallet, he extracted a few notes and handed her some cash. Oh, Florian, isn't that just like you, I thought. Pull out your chequebook and make everything _go away_. Heidi cast one last glance back at me, smiled nervously, and then fled.

>>Where is she?<< I asked once Heidi was gone. I hoped I had asked reasonably, but my voice kept wavering.

>>Sandhya went back to her hotel.<<

>>Alone?<< I asked.

>>No, she has a friend staying with her. A schoolfriend, who lives in France now. They made the trip together. You would have met her yourself, had you stayed.<<

I knew I sounded like a harpie, like the harridan wives of legend, but I couldn't help but ask. >>Did you tell her she couldn't come on your bus?<<

Florian sighed deeply, and collapsed into the easy chair, putting his face into his hands. >>Emil told her she could ride on the bus, but just to Yeovil. Not to any of the other gigs.<<

>>Emil told her?<< I ranted, unable to stop myself. >>Emil told her yes? Why couldn't you just tell her no?<<

>>She is friends with Emil, OK? Emil likes her a lot.<<

I stared at him. There had been a time when Emil had liked me a lot. Did he just not care about my feelings now?

>>It's just two gigs<< he sighed. >>Calm down.<<

There was nothing quite like a red flag to a bull, to me, like being told to calm down. >>It's not just two gigs<< I told him. >>Did you not hear her? She's already coming to every gig on the tour. I suppose you'll just put her on the guest list.<<

>>It doesn't matter. If we don't put her on the guest list, she'll just buy tickets. This way, we get one more sale out of it.<< Florian shrugged. It was exactly his father's gesture, as he cocked his head to one side, scratching the hair at the back of his neck.

I stared at him, suddenly seeing his father in his face. It was funny, because for the most part, Florian favoured his mother physically, those ice blue eyes, those high cheekbones, that sharply angled German jawline. But at that moment, with dark rings under his eyes, and his jaw set in angry determination, he just looked so much like his father. And I thought for a moment, about where we were. In a penthouse apartment that his father had kept back from sale, in order to keep for assignations with his mistresses. In Florian's family, everyone thought it was perfectly normal to have mistresses. It was just a thing, that rich men did. They kept a mistress up in Hamburg by the University, and a wife and family back at home in Düsseldorf. It wasn't unusual, it was just how things were done.

>>Oh my god<< I said dumbly.

>>What now?<< he said. >>And what are you doing to our flat?<< He gestured at the chaos of packing, all around him.

>>You think I'm that dumb<< I said. >>You really think I'm that dumb.<<

>>What are you talking about. I know you're not dumb. I know you're very clever, as you keep reminding me. So clever that Benoit Mandlebrot himself has been trying to recruit you for his top-notch research team.<< There was a slightly snide edge to his voice that infuriated me so much I went on the attack.

>>You're just like Paul. You think you're just going to keep me at home, to run the apartment, and handle your social life. And then you're going to have another girlfriend, a fun-girl on the road, to keep you company, because I can't travel with you? How like your father.<<

>>What<< said Florian, and he suddenly went very pale. >>What did you say to me?<<

>>That's what you want, isn't it. A wife at home, and a girlfriend at work. Just like your Dad. Just like Paul. You are Paul's son, through and through.<<

>>Oh my god<< gasped Florian, putting his hand to his forehead. >>Maybe Heidi is right. Are you having a nervous breakdown? Is this because I asked you not to go to New York? Is this your way of taking revenge on me?<<

>>Don't gaslight me!<< I snapped. >>I am not crazy. You have been having an affair with that girl. That girl you danced with, all night.<<

>> _Had_ an affair << he insisted. >> _Had_. It is over now. We did nothing tonight, except talk. Just catch up. I like talking to her, she is clever and funny and outgoing and very, very easy to talk to. <<

>>What, unlike me, who is a paranoid wreck, because oh, I just happen to object to you spending all night ' _talking_ ' with a woman you've been sleeping with!<<

>>Oh my god<< he repeated, his eyes growing very large. >>Oh my god, you are turning into my own mother. Is this what happened to Evamaria? Paul had one affair, a long time ago, when she was pregnant with my sister, and it snapped her mind. She started seeing mistresses everywhere. Accusing him of sleeping with everything, all of the time, because he was gone so much, working on commissions. He couldn't hire a secretary without her accusing him of sleeping with her, too. It got to the point where he started staying away, just to get some peace. And after a while, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.<< There were tears in his eyes as he crawled off the chair and moved towards me, kneeling in front of me, and trying to cup my face in his hands. >>Jan, just please. Just stop it. Don't do this.<<

>>Stop what<< I whispered. >>I'm not the one that's done something tonight.<<

>>Jan, I love you very much, but you are frightening me.<<

All of a sudden, rage and fear shook me. I couldn't stand the idea of losing him. I wanted to fight, but I didn't know how. For a horrible moment, I became convinced of the idea that he had fucked her at the club, and I moved towards him, sniffing him for proof. I checked his shirt for lipstick, peered under the collar looking for lovebites. I moved down, sniffing, sniffing, finally tearing at his belt, opening up his flies and sniffing at his cock, expecting him to smell of another girl. But there was nothing. He smelled like Florian, stale sweat, coffee and the faint hint of Weleda, mixed with the smokey air of the club.

>>Oh my god<< I said dumbly, looking down at his cock, and realising exactly how insane I looked.

But he clearly misunderstood. >>Do you want me to make love to you? Is that what you want? Would that prove to you that I love only you?<<

For a moment, I wanted it. I wanted him to just pick me up in his arms, and carry me over to the bed, and fuck me and make everything better again, folding me in his long arms and bringing me to orgasm again and again. But the paranoia shook me like a ragdoll caught in a dog's teeth. >>Do you love her?<<

We stared at each other for a long time. He said nothing. But he did not say _no_. But finally he screwed up his eyes really tight, then opened them again.  >>I cannot believe you are asking me this.<<

>>You don't deny it<< I said stiffly.

>>Look, I like her. I don't deny that. I like her a lot. And I was attracted to her, yes, but mostly because she was so attracted to me. It's flattering to be desired. But love her? Jan, I don't even _know_ her. <<

>>But you knew her well enough to fuck her.<<

Florian rolled his eyes sky-high. >>Are we going to go over this, over and over, and over again, always and forever? Because in that case, I'm going to go to bed.<<

I looked at him, and I knew at that moment, as I saw the fight go out of his eyes, that our relationship was over. That was it. We were over. Five years, up in smoke. Up in paranoid fantasies, and a stupid girl on a bus in Yeovil. He went to bed, and I followed him, and we made love, dumbly, wet and warm without our voices. But I knew as we did it, that it was the last time. I thought, every time we touched each other: this is the last time he will kiss my breast; this is the last time I will take his balls into my mouth; this is the last time he will pull me about by my hips, thrusting into me; this is the last time I will come, quivering, with his long, thin thumb pressed up against my clitoris; this is the last time I will feel his semen, dripping down my leg, his heartbeat slowing as he falls asleep with me still clenched in his arms. The very last time.

We fought for two more days. There were periods of calm, and relative rest, yes, where we were too bruised and exhausted to fight any further. There were explosive arguments, and there were short, snappish, brusque arguments. But there was never another moment at which I actually thought "wait, no, stop, we will actually make it, we will get through this, and get married and be happy again." My marriage was over; we were just fighting over the pieces. At that point, even had he put Sandhya on a plane back to the States, and told me she was never going near Yeovil, or any other Power Station gig, ever again, I still don't think that our relationship would ever have been whole again. I had sacrificed everything to make him happy, but he wouldn't sacrifice just one, silly little fangirl.

Because the problem was, he just wouldn't tell her to go away. The next afternoon, in the midst of a quiet stretch, when we were both too tired to fight any more, the phone rang. Florian just picked up the receiver, without letting it to go the answerphone, which he never did, so he must have known in advance who was calling.

"Hello? Oh, hello ... Yes, I'm fine, how are you? ... Oh, my hangover was not so bad. How was yours? ... Haha, I told you that Altbier was a killer, but you would not listen. OK, yes." A brief silence. "Yes, that would be good, how about we meet first for coffee at the Cafe Bittner, that would be _most_ nice." A small laugh. "Oh! My English! I know it is not so good. OK then, not most nice, just nicest." But then his face darkened. "I don't know, I will see if she wants to come ... OK, see you later, either way."

I stared at him, feeling my face flushing. >>That was her, wasn't it?<<

>>She has invited us both to dinner. Honestly, Jan, she wants the two of you to be friends.<< he said, in the annoying reasonable voice he used when he knew he was asking something totally unreasonable.

>>You cannot be serious<< I said. >>You cannot expect me to sit at a table at Cafe Bittner, and make small talk with your mistress. Can you not imagine, how humiliating this would be for me? What on earth do you expect me to chat about? 'Oh yes, have you ever noticed that Florian's left testicle hangs ever so slightly higher than his right; oh yes, Jan, I have observed this too.' You can _not_ seriously expect me to do this. <<

Florian just looked at me, his face expressionless. >>You are actually insane<< he said very quietly, but then his colour started to rise again, his face going very red. >>Are you going to tell me now, who I can and can't be friends with?<<

>>I am not telling you who you can and can't be friends with, but as your supposed girlfriend, it is my right to tell you who you can and can't _sleep_ with. << I snapped back.

>>What if I just started going off half-cocked about every man - every man and woman in your case - that you know? What if I started pitching jealous fits about your conversations with, for example, Benoit Mandelbrot?<<

>>Don't be ridiculous<< I laughed. >>Benoit's an old man, positively middle aged. He reminds me of my father, that's all.<<

>>So you don't deny it?<< he tossed back, in an awful imitation of my accent.

>> _What_? <<

>>This is the logic that you use on me. You don't deny being in love with Benoit Mandelbrot, so you must be having an affair with him.<<

>>You're absolutely nuts<< I stuttered, unable to comprehend what he was playing at.

>>Yes, you're right<< insisted Florian. >>This logic, it _is_ completely nuts. Insane, like I said.Yet this is what you have been throwing at me. Now, please. Do not make a scene. Just come to dinner with Sandhya and her schoolfriend, and you will see how absurd this idea is, and how little you have to fear from our affinity. <<

I felt language slipping out from under me. _Affinity_. In German, the word was ambiguous, it just meant closeness or nearness. I would say I had an _affinity_ for cycling, or that Florian had an _affinity_ for machines. But it also had undertones of intimacy, for example, when Claudia had described her growing affections for Hans-Joachim, she had used the same word - she had an _affinity_ for Achim - and she had definitely meant a romantic affinity.

>>I won't go<< I said, very quietly, but as steady as a rock. >>You can't make me.<<

Florian's ice-blue eyes were determined. >>If you try to make me stay, then I will grow to hate you, like Paul hates Evamaria.<<

I saw it, in that awful fight, how his parents' marriage had soured over the years. Evamaria had tried to warn me about this, on the way to Aachen, but I had not understood what she had told me, not then.

>>If you go<< I said, in a small, quiet squeak like a mouse. >>I will not be here, when you get back.<<

>>I don't believe you<< said Florian, as he picked his keys off the hook by the door. >>This is the kind of threat my mother has made a thousand times. She never means it, and you don't, either. If you want to join us, we will be at Cafe Bittner on the Kö.<< And he turned, and he walked out the door.

I waited for about ten minutes, as I heard his footsteps echo towards the lift, then the soft hum of it spiriting him away downstairs. I waited, just to make sure, listening for the sound of the lift carrying him back to me, and his distinctive footsteps in the hall, telling me he was sorry, and he was wrong, and he wouldn't see her any more. But there was nothing. I was alone, with my pride.

Digging through my pile of papers, I sifted until I found some letters from Benoit. Most of the conference stuff had his telephone number printed on them, but it was the general office line. However, I knew he had given me his own personal direct extension in one of his letters, when we were trying to arrange a data transfer. I picked up the phone, and dialled the operator, then asked to make an international call, and gave them Benoit's number.

It rang a few times, and then I heard his voice come on the line. "Yes, Doctor Mandelbrot here."

"I have an international call from Düsseldorf, West Germany, Will you accept?" asked the operator in heavily accented English.

"Germany..." mused Benoit for a moment. "Oh, yes! Of course. Put it through."

"Benoit" I tried to say brightly, hoping that I was not too late. "It's Jan. Jan Schneider."

"Yes, of course it is. I don't know anyone else in Düsseldorf. How are you?"

"I'm OK," I lied, then got straight to the point. "How is your candidate search going for the research team?"

"Mon dieu" sighed Benoit. "This is a nightmare. I think we have interviewed nearly a hundred people for your position, but no one is quite right. We are down to a shortlist of four, but the problem is, the guys who are good with the presentation and have an eye for the grace and beauty of the illustrations, none of them understand so much as a line of code. And the best coder we have seen, well, this man is actually colour blind. I am trying to see if we can re-jig the budget, and offer perhaps two part-time roles, but it is an imperfect solution."

"Call off the search," I told him.

"I told you, Jan, it is only an imperfect solution..."

"No, I am offering you the perfect solution. Me."

There was a deep sigh at the other end, though I could not tell if it was a sigh of relief, or of worry. I could hear papers being shuffled on his desk. "Your husband" he said at last. "Has he had a change of heart?"

"He's had a change of heart alright" I said, trying to keep my voice even. "Our marriage is not on the rocks, it is over. I need to get out of Düsseldorf, and fast. Send me a plane ticket, call the movers, whatever IBM do when they hire internationally. If you want me, I am available for the position. But it has to be _now_."

"Oh my goodness," said Benoit, in his strange French-American accent. I had at last caught him by surprise. "Jan, I need to call you back in ten minutes... no, twenty minutes. Do not go anywhere. Just stay right by the telephone, I will ring you back just as soon as I have spoken to the Personnel Department."

I didn't even dare move to go to the loo, I just sat by the phone, on tenterhooks. Maybe if everything was right, I could leave tonight, just get on a plane and go. I would show Florian that I was not prepared to be his Evamaria, raising his children in stultifying anger and waiting patiently at home.

The phone rang and I jumped on it. "Hello? Is that you?"

>>Hello, Jan. Ralf here. How is it going?<<

>>Get off the phone, Ralf, I need to keep the line clear<< I shouted at him, and hung up the phone.

I waited and waited, wondering if stupid Ralf's stupid interruption had cost me my job. But no, Benoit would have called right back if he had found the phone engaged. After half an hour, the phone finally rang again.

"Jan, I've got excellent news. We will work out the contracts and the Green Card when you get over here, but you can fly over on a Business Trip or Conference visa for now. My secretary has booked you a flight for tomorrow evening, out of Köln-Bonn Airport. You will be transferring overnight in Paris, I'm afraid, but it will be First Class from there to JFK. Is that OK for you?"

I let out a huge sigh of relief. "That's wonderful. Thank you so much. I suppose I can stay in a hotel overnight, but it'll give me time to arrange a removal company for my things."

"Wait, the secretary in Personnel gave me the name of the company that IBM always use. I've got an account number for you, so you can put it on the company's tab."

I scribbled down the name and the number. "Benoit, you are a life-saver."

"No, Jan," he said. "You are the life-saver. I am sorry that it has taken you this personal tragedy to be able to come. But your husband's loss is my - and the scientific community's - gain. You can make a wonderful new start in New York. I know you can. I stand behind you all the way, and I will guide you."

It was the most personal thing Benoit had ever said to me, but as he spoke, I felt the same paternal tug that I had felt when I first spoke to Beuys. I had found a new mentor, a new guide, to help me to the next stage of my life. It was something that Beuys himself had often said; when you are ready, the teacher will come.


	66. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Florian and Jan's relationship crumbles, Jan finds comfort in the most unexpected quarters. And yet this solace comes at its own price.

I packed a small overnight bag to take to the hotel, then arranged the boxes of my personal belongings into a rough pile near the door. Although Heidi had called it a kind of madness, I was glad that I had had the foresight to pack, and go through my things. That would make leaving much easier. And then I looked around the flat. I looked at the bed, at the television, at the long sofa where Florian and I had liked to lie together and read, all tangled up. I looked at the dining room table, still covered in bits of broken transistors, and I looked at the kitchen, with its black and white tiled floor. I looked at the balcony, where we had thrown such lovely parties. And I thought... I did not know what I was doing when I came to this Hochhaus in the sky, a naive, frightened teenager, just desperately in love. But at least I was leaving on my own terms. Of that, at least, I was proud.

Then I picked up the small suitcase, and took the lift downstairs, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes, and trying to staunch the flow.

But when I got downstairs, I nearly collided with Ralf, typically not looking where he was going as he strode up the path. >>Watch where you are going<< I shouted at him, as if I could vent all of my anger and frustration at this annoying little man.

>>You were very rude to me on the phone, just now<< he tossed right back, though Ralf never raised his voice to shout. >>I would like to speak to Flori, but your line is constantly engaged.<<

>>Florian is not here<< I told him briskly. >>If you want him, he is having dinner with his mistress. Perhaps you can still catch him.<<

>>What?<< That stopped Ralf in his tracks, as he stared at me, and suddenly seemed to notice that I was crying. >>What has happened, Chan, tell me.<<

>>Why didn't you tell me, that he was screwing that girl, while he was on tour?<< I hurled back.

His face suddenly crumpled, as he realised what must have happened. He had seen her in the club, too. >>Oh my god.<<

>>I am leaving him, Ralf. We are breaking up.<< I informed him coldly.

>>You can not leave, not over this<< insisted Ralf, as visibly upset as if I had just told him his parents were breaking up. >>Chan, listen to me...<<

>>No<< I said. >>I am tired of listening to you two. Now I am going, to a hotel. You can either give me a ride, or get out of my way.<<

Ralf sighed, and took the suitcase from me, putting it in the front storage compartment of his VW. He, at least, had not succumbed to this madness with the expensive cars, and continued to drive his old trusty grey Beetle. >>You're not going to an anonymous hotel. I don't think you should be alone right now. You're coming to my flat.<<

>>I can't come to your flat<< I said as I climbed into his passenger seat, though to be honest, he was right about my not wanting to be alone. If I was alone for too long, I might get weak, and find myself ringing Florian's flat to check when - or if - he came back from that dinner. >>It wouldn't be right.<<

But Ralf fixed me with a steely, determined gaze. >>Don't pretend you have not slept at my apartment before.<<

I gasped, but tried to hide it. >>You knew?<<

He nodded slowly as he put the car into gear. >>I have seen your knickers before, Chan. I did not want to tell Flori, because it would break his heart. But only one woman in this town wears Marks and Spencer's.<<

>>But why did you not tell me, about Sandhya?<< I wailed.

Ralf frowned darkly. >>We made a deal, on tour. I would not tell you about Sandhya, if he did not tell Isabella about my indiscretions.<< He smiled wryly, with a delicate little shrug. >>Some lot of good, that did.<<

I looked at him carefully, noticing that he was wearing his glasses again, thinking that I preferred him with glasses, as they suited the square angles of his face. >>I am sorry for... I am sorry for hurting you, by sleeping with her<< I said, and realised that I meant it.

He stopped at a traffic light, and turned to look at me. >>This may sound strange, but to me, it was a perfectly natural thing. In an odd way... well. I'm glad that it was you, and not a stranger.<<

>>But why?<< This was the exact opposite of what Florian had said, and I wondered how they could be so different in love, while they were temperamentally so similar.

>>Because I trust you.<<

The words sounded so strange, and yet so sincere, echoing around that little car, that I almost burst out laughing. >>You trust me? I fucked your girlfriend, I have smashed up my own relationship, and I have probably just broken Florian's heart... and you trust me?<<

>>I trust you<< he repeated. >>Chan, I love you, and I always have. I never stopped.<<

I burst into tears. It was just too much, this honest, open declaration from Ralf, who was normally so self-contained, so emotionally closed off. I knew it was true; he was like a brother to me. Of all my friends in Düsseldorf, who had wandered off, one by one - Silke lost to Forst and Achim, Claudia lost to Hamburg, Myrthe lost to the endless problems with MSC - Ralf had just always been there, just quietly being my friend. Well, no, not always quietly. Sometimes with very annoying and strenuous complaining, but that was Ralf. He and Wolfgang were alike in that regard; they both enjoyed nothing so much as griping about things.

>>Oh, please don't cry<< said Ralf, casting about the car for a tissue.

>>It's OK<< I told him, patting him gently on the hand. As I looked at him, with that furrow of concern widening his eyes, at last I saw it. We did look sort of alike. My affection for him surged, as if for the sibling I had never had. >>I have a strong affinity for you, as well.<<

He smiled. >>At last.<<

That wretched word, that awful, slippery, wretched word. I used it without thinking about it, the same way I would express affection for Claudia or Tina, a family word, an in-laws word. I thought of Ralf as my brother, or Florian's brother, honestly, I did, hugging him affectionately, with my arm around his waist and my head on his shoulder as we climbed the stairs to his apartment. It was comfort I needed, and affection, a pure, uncomplicated, familial kind of love that I knew I could always get from Ralf.

He put the coffeemaker on as I wandered about the flat, staring at how huge it looked when empty. Florian had told me that Isabella had stripped it back to the bare walls, and yet I was unprepared for the effect of that huge, echoing white space. The kitchen was bare except for a coffeemaker and a kettle, not even a table. Ralf obviously took his meals elsewhere. There was a small white phone, on the floor. And the mattress, taken out of the bedroom, pushed up against one wall. The rest of the furniture was gone, but to be honest, I was glad that those shiny leather sofas had gone. I didn't want to think about the memories that they aroused.

Ralf prepared two cups of coffee, then walked over to the mattress, sitting down on it, and placing the spare cup of coffee at my feet. >>I'm sorry there's no other furniture<< he said. >>I just... well, I haven't got around to it. And we are off on tour again in another few weeks.<<

I looked about, glancing at the door to the bedroom, then sat at the opposite end of the bed. >>Shouldn't this be in the other room?<< I asked, trying to hold myself together with small talk as I sipped the coffee. He always made it so exceptionally strong.

>>But then there would be nowhere to sit. And anyway. I hate that room<< he confessed. >>It was always Isabella's taste, not mine. All those mirrors. I hate looking at myself in the mirror.<<

>>You're not a bad-looking man<< I told him, and actually meant it.

He smiled wryly. >>It is a face that looks better on a woman. Everyone says so.<<

We looked at each other, and then I looked around the room, that huge, white, cavernous, empty space, and I couldn't help it. Something shook me, and the tears just started to flow, as if weeks of emotions, everything that had happened since Florian had got back off tour, were all hitting me all at once. The job offer. That awful car. My graduation. Him refusing to marry me. Him refusing to move to New York. Him confessing to cheating. Me confessing to cheating. And then, finally, to top it all off, Sandhya arriving in Düsseldorf, and him refusing not to see her, even though he knew that she caused me so much pain and anxiety.

And I knew, then, at that moment, crying my eyes out in Ralf's empty apartment, that the problem wasn't even Sandhya. That was the worst part, the realisation that she was a symptom - a horrible, painful, itch of a symptom - but she was not the disease. I could not be the lover that Florian wanted. He wanted a lover that would put her life on hold, and travel around with him, and go on tour and look after him. And I wanted to go to New York, and live in a loft like Rebecca's friends and plot Mandlebrot's strange, self-symmetrical flowers of mathematics.

My marriage had not actually ended when Sandhya walked into that club on the Königsallee. It had ended weeks earlier, sitting in that awful tank of a Mercedes on the Rhine, when Florian had refused point-blank to go to New York. Sandhya was not Silke, tempting away an already-engaged man from his beloved. New York was my Forst. And Florian, ultimately, was selfish. He expected me to sacrifice my career, for the sake of his. But he had never made an inch of a concession towards my career that hadn't helped his own. Evamaria had been right, oh so right. Her own son, she knew him better than anyone.

I cried, for hours, on that mattress of Ralf's. At first, he just sat there, making funny cooing noises he probably thought of as soothing. And then he moved over next to me, and put his arms awkwardly around my shoulders, and tried to console me, stroking my hair. I collapsed against him, just tired and exhausted, and racked with sobbing, and yet still needing to sob more. How much could one cry out, the end of a five-year relationship? And yet still I cried.

Ralf left for a short while. And then he came back. Food appeared beside me - thank god it was Chinese takeaway, and not Indian. Indian food would forever remind me of Florian. I tried to eat, but I could manage no more than a few morsels. Drink appeared; a bottle of good German Riesling. That was easier to get down, though I did not want to get drunk, as I knew I had to fly the next day. But it took the edge off the intense pain, and numbed me slightly. I needed to feel numb just to get through the next 24 hours.

Eventually I slept. Ralf stayed by my side, curled up like a dog at the other side of the bed. When I awoke, I wasn't entirely sure where I was. The sky outside was dark, but I knew I was not in my home. I rolled over, stupidly searching for Florian's body in the bed, beside mine. But of course there was no Florian. There was only Ralf. Without thinking, I put my arm around his waist and laid my head against his chest. At first, I just wanted the reassurance of a heartbeat to soothe me back to sleep, but as he shifted, and wrapped his arms around me, resting his sharp chin on the top of my head, something in me woke.

I was not drunk. I did not even have that excuse. I was just in pain, and lonely, and feeling like the world was ending. Nudging his shirt out of the way, I just moved my cheek back and forth over the soft skin of his stomach. Ralf was always so hairless, like a girl; sometimes it took two or three days even for stubble to come in on his face. The girlish softness of his skin surprised me, so yielding and gentle after the manly fuzz of Florian's hairy chest. Ralf was awake now, slowly moving his hands to my head, stroking my hair and tenderly kissing my forehead. I had only to move my body a few inches up, and he had only to move his a few inches down, and our mouths met. Kissing Ralf, his hard, insistent lips, so domineering. I had never liked his tongue, and yet I somehow needed it. Magnetism or desperation or need pulled us closer together, as I dug my fingers into his hair. It was slightly slick, not with grease now, but with whatever product he used to stick it out of his face.

He rolled over onto his back, and I rolled over on top of him, climbing onto his chest, holding him down by the shoulders and kissing him back, hard. And suddenly, it was urgent. I needed him, needed the reassurance of his body, as I held him down, pulling off his clothes. And he was so oddly passive, just lying back and letting me do whatever I liked to him, holding me as I raked my teeth across the soft parts of his neck, his shoulders.

But when I reached down, feeling his cock hardening between his legs, he stopped me, putting his hand on mine. >>Wait a minute<< he said softly, kissing me then gently pushing me off him.

For a moment, I panicked. What the hell were we doing? And yet I could not stand even though thought of another rejection. (Perhaps, indeed, that was why I had chosen Ralf. Instinctively, I think I knew how he still felt about me; he was the one person who would never reject me.)

But he got up and walked across to his leather coat, digging through it until he found a small plastic packet, then he walked back to me, kissing my shoulder, my breasts, as he lay back down beside me, unwrapping a small rubber prophylactic from its wrapper.

I stared at it; I had never seen one before. I was on the pill. And in those innocent days before the AIDS epidemic, condoms were still a rarity. >>What is that for? I'm still on the pill<< I asked stupidly.

>>I've just come off a course of antibiotics, but I don't want to risk anything<< he whispered, lying back as he rolled it down his rapidly hardening cock.

>>You're hardly going to catch anything from me<< I laughed, wondering if I should be insulted.

>>I don't want to give you anything, Liebling<< he said, his blue eyes sorrowful as he looked up at me.

I climbed on top of him, but his cock felt very strange as he entered me. All wrapped up in plastic like that, he felt not entirely human, a bit like fucking a mannequin. I'm not proud, but I used him anyway. I held him down by the shoulders, and just rode him, passionately, painfully, like I was just trying to fuck my own pain away. I did not even stop to think how he would view this furtive, midnight bout of love-making. I just knew that I needed to fuck someone, so convinced was I that Florian had taken Sandhya back to our apartment and made love to her in our bed. Using Ralf like a human dildo, I rung an orgasm, and then another, from my exhausted body, but with his organ all wrapped up in rubber, it was hard to tell when he had come.

I lay back against the mattress, catching my breath, pressing little kisses I didn't mean onto his newly exposed cheekbones. Success, going on tour, fucking all of those girls, it somehow seemed to have been good for him, as there was a new confidence in his face that I liked. But there was, still, a touch of sadness in his eyes as he kissed me back, and whispered sweet nothings in my ear again, telling me that he loved me, he had always loved me, and he would always be there for me. I wrapped my arms around his waist, nuzzled my head under that sharp chin, and fell back asleep.

When I woke, his arms were wrapped tightly around my waist from behind, his sharp chin still resting uncomfortably on the soft hollow of my shoulder. I woke with a jolt, and just felt consumed with the complete wrongness of it. I had forgotten how uncomfortable Ralf was to sleep with, how our bodies just did not fit together, how he liked to squeeze me so tight I couldn't breathe, as if he were afraid I would run away.

>>Ralf<< I said, and elbowed him, fighting to get some breathing room.

>>Liebling<< he said, and kissed my shoulder.

>>Please let me go, I need a piss.<< It wasn't entirely a lie, but mostly I just wanted to get some space away from him. I locked myself in the bathroom, and when I was done relieving myself, I sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at myself in the mirror. My first day without Florian. It felt like a limb was missing. I took a brief shower, just to buy myself more time alone, then wrapped myself in Ralf's towel and made my way back out to the main room, looking about for my clothes.

But he frowned at me from the mattress where he lay. >>Come back to bed<< he said. >>Let's have another fuck.<<

>>Ralf<< I said carefully, kneeling down by the mattress to retrieve my bra. >>That was a one-off. This is not going to be the start of something.<<

>>But it could be<< he shrugged. He rolled over towards me, studying me with those dark blue eyes, still rimmed around with fleshy rolls, even now he was slim. >>Liebling, I have been waiting for you all this time. I mean... I never dreamed that you really would come back to me. I know that you are hurt, that you are upset over Flori and that girl. But I could comfort you, Chan. I could be good for you. You and I, we could start again.<<

I just stared at him, feeling horror spreading across my face, wondering what on earth I had got myself into. >>Ralf, it is not going to be like that. Florian and I did not break up, because of that girl. We broke up because I am going to New York. I have been offered my dream job, and I need to move to New York. And Florian refuses to come with me.<<

That shook Ralf's smile slightly, but then he forcibly rearranged his frown into a pleasant expression. >>I like New York<< he said brightly.

>>No<< I said, trying desperately to think of a way to put him off without upsetting him too much. I had turned to Ralf for comfort in the break-up of my relationship, but here, once again, I had to tread carefully to comfort Ralf, instead of receiving the comfort I needed. >>You can't come with me. You do not have a visa.<<

>>How were you proposing to take Flori, then?<< he demanded, setting his jaw in that slightly petulant expression.

>>We would have had to get married<< I said, a little too sharply, but it was still very painful, the realisation that for five years now, I had just been assuming that Florian and I would eventually marry. And now we never would.

>>I see.<< For an awful moment, I thought he might actually propose, but fortunately he kept his mouth closed. In that respect, at least, he had grown up.

>>I am sorry, Ralf...<< I started. >>Oh Christ, I am so sorry. I knew we should not have...<<

>>No!<< he insisted, reaching out to put his hand over my mouth. >>Don't say it. Don't spoil it. I regret nothing.<<

I started to push his hand away, but instead, I took it and held it between my own. This was horrible, feeling like I was having to break up twice in two days, and I hated him a little for it. >>I am grateful to you, for what we did last night. I needed to do it, and I am glad that it was with you, not a stranger. Because I...<< My voice started to crack. >>Because I trust you. But this is not the start of something, you and I. This is the end of something, Ralfi, not the beginning.<< I winced at how my words echoed Florian's, and we both knew it.

>>But it could be the beginning, for you and I. A new beginning<< he insisted, with the tenacity of a little boy.

>>Do you honestly think, that I am going to just walk out, from the collapse of my relationship with Florian, and pick up with you?<<

Ralf stuck his lower lip out defiantly. >>I don't see why not. You went straight from my bed, to his, when you took up with him.<<

>>Ralf<< I said quietly, resisting the urge to hit him. Really, what I wanted was to tell him that although there might be, still, some vague chemistry between us, I had never been in love with him, while I had spent five years, desperately in love with Florian. >>That was a six-week relationship. This has been a five-year marriage.<<

That, at last, finally seemed to shake him. I saw a spark in his eye, and for just a second, I thought that he might turn the pedant, insist to me that Florian and I had never been legally married, but Ralf of all people, knew how close our relationship had been. >>Of course<< he said at last. >>I am sorry. I am being an ass. You need a friend, not a lover. I need to let you... I need to let you have space. To mourn the end of your marriage.<<

>>Yes<< I said, relieved that he had finally seen sense without a fight. I just did not have it in me to go through another fight.

>>I am sorry. Anything you need me to do, I will do for you, though.<< What on earth had I ever done, to deserve this devotion?

>>I do need something from you, though.<<

>>Anything.<< He nodded quickly.

>>I need you to come back with me, to Florian's flat, to help me pick up my things. We will not fight, if there is someone else there, especially if it is you.<< To tell the truth, really I was afraid that Florian had had the same thought, and I wanted someone with me to protect me from the presence of her.

>>OK<< he agreed, then climbed out of bed and walked to the bathroom to change.

We drove back to Golzheim in silence. I was quite simply terrified of what we might find. Horrible scenarios twisted themselves across my tortured brain as Ralf drove, imagining seeing Florian and the girl, spread out naked across the bed, or worse, finding the house completely empty. Ralf parked, and we climbed up in the lift together. I still had the keys, but the house felt like a stranger to me, so I knocked on the apartment door, reaching for Ralf's hand and clasping it for strength. He squeezed back gently.

Footsteps. The scrape of the latch being pulled back, and the door swung open. Florian standing there, in his bathrobe, his hair still wet from the shower. >>Are you alone?<< I asked.

>>Yes<< he shrugged, and moved back, allowing us to enter the room. >>Though I see you're not.<< He and Ralf exchanged odd looks as they passed one another.

I looked at Florian carefully, the dark circles under his eyes, the pained curl to his thin lips, trying to work what had happened to him overnight. For a few minutes, we just stared at each other, me worried, him with an air of nonchalance, as I tried to figure out what to say. Could he tell that Ralf and I had been together? I had showered, carefully scrubbing every trace of Ralf's scent from my body, but those two kept no secrets from one another.

>>Oh. Yes<< Florian suddenly said, shattering the heavy silence, moving back towards the answerphone and picking up a sheet of paper. >>Dr Mandelbrot's secretary rang back with...<< His voice broke, and I realised that the facade of nonchalance was paper thin. >>...with the details of your flight tonight. I wrote them down for you, so you would not lose them.<< The way that he said it indicated that this had been a difficult decision. I'm not sure I would have done so, had our positions been reversed.

But as he handed the sheet to me, Ralf stared at it. >>Tonight?<<

>>Oh yes. Did she not tell you? She is leaving tonight. At least that is her plan.<< He sat down again at the dining room table, and I saw his breakfast, only half eaten, but with an air of abandonment, rather than interruption.

>>What other choice did I have?<< I demanded. Oh Scheisse, it looked like we were going to have our fight, even in Ralf's presence. As far as Florian was concerned, being with Ralf was just like being in private. >>You went off with Sandhya.<<

Florian did not look at me, he looked at Ralf. >>Did you sleep with my wife?<<

Ralf swallowed nervously. >>Ja<< he yelped, a single sharp syllable.

A muscle flickered in Florian's jaw. >>Did you enjoy it?<<

>>Very much so<< confessed Ralf, after a moment's hesitation. 

Florian stared at him with a hard, unreadable expression in his ice-cold eyes. >>I mean, why not. Everything that's mine is yours, and everything that's yours is mine, is that not so, Ralf?<<

Ralf said nothing, he just cleared his throat with that awful hawking sound, and then swallowed, hard. I think I would have preferred it if Florian had gone full-tilt, exploding and losing his temper like his father, but this hard-edged silence and total lack of audible jealousy, it was much, much worse. Florian didn't even need to speak, to make the obvious accusation. His band-mate. His best friend. His partner in all things. If I had been trying to hurt him, I could not have picked a better attack.

>>I did it because he was there<< I finally confessed. >>I woke in the night, and there was Ralf, as always. Because Ralf is always there. I swear, you would bring him on our honeymoon. So if there was a third party in our marriage, it was because you put him there.<<

>>I love her<< said Ralf quietly. >>I have always loved her.<< As I stared at him, I realised it was a lie. He didn't love me at all. He barely knew me. I was just some cipher, some idea of a lost love that he could never really recover, even if I lay naked in his arms, as I had that morning. If Florian loved machines, then Ralf really truly only loved ideas.

>>And yet she didn't bother telling you, that she was leaving today.<< Florian observed, with a devastating tilt of one eyebrow.

<Did you fuck her?<< I demanded, interrupting him, going on the attack to assuage my guilty conscience over Ralf.

>>I did not<< said Florian in that infuriating reasonable voice. >>She told me - without my even asking, before you accuse me - that she would not sleep with me again, while you and I were together. So you have nothing to worry about.<<

>>So I bet you can't wait for me to leave now.<< I snorted.

>>No<< insisted Florian with a violence that surprised me, stabbing at his breakfast. >>I want you to stay.<< The nonchalance fell from his face as he looked up at me, his eyes pleading. >>Jan, please. I will even forgive you for Ralf, and call it quits. But I am asking you. Do not go to New York. Stay with me. Please. I need you.<<

I shook my head. >>No. Florian, I am asking you. Come to New York with me. We don't have to marry; you can come on a tourist visa until your next tour. Just get a ticket, and come.<<

Florian shook his head in that familiar brisk motion. >>I can't.<<

>>You idiot<< said Ralf, his voice tight >>I would.<<

>>No, you wouldn't<< said Florian in that annoying reasonable voice. The Doch of German rebuttal sounded particularly flat. >>Ralf, it has taken you four years to move from your parents' house in Krefeld to a loft in Düsseldorf. It would take you the rest of the century to move to New York.<<

Ralf shrugged and turned away, unable to meet either of our eyes. Some spark had gone out of Ralf, with regards to me, and I could not shake the horrible feeling that I had lost my appeal to him, now that I no longer belonged to Florian. Again, I thought, Ralf didn't love me, he didn't even really want me for myself. Any desire he had for me had only ever been his natural competitiveness coming out, in relation to Florian. Florian, the only man in the world against whom his competitiveness didn't stand a chance. Florian did not compete; he simply existed in some other space that Ralf could never reach.

>>Don't take it out on Ralf. It's not his fault<< I said quietly.

>>I know<< Florian said softly. >>If you thought you could hurt me by this, well, you're wrong.<< His voice trailed off as Ralf turned around to look at him.

The pair of them stared at each other, almost totally ignoring me. I simply did not know how to read the glances that they were exchanging, though it seemed like an entire conversation was taking place, without either of them speaking.

I said nothing, just looking at Florian, thinking how handsome he was, how beautiful I had always found him, his severe pointed nose, that slight cleft in his chin, his thin lips curled up slightly on the left side, his silver-blue eyes. How could I leave this man, that was everything I'd ever wanted? It felt as if the world were ending.

>>I should get dressed. I shall drive you to the airport, Jan.<< But as he stood up, he cast a glance back over his shoulder. >>Oh, by the way, the removal firm rang. I made an appointment, later in the week, for them to collect your things. While you are still here, just let me know... have you taken anything of mine, that I will need to replace?<<

I could hardly believe that we were discussing this so reasonably, our divorce. >>No. I was very careful. Oh, I suppose I did take all the Bowie albums, even the one that Klaus gave us both.<<

Florian shrugged off his bathrobe, and I craned my neck to look at him one last time, those ridiculously thin legs, that barrel chest, covered in fuzz, his cock inert between his thighs. But he dressed quickly, grey flannel slacks, a button-down shirt, a v-necked jumper. I had, at least, taught him how to dress well.

>>Do you have your passport?<< he asked.

>>Of course I have my passport.<<

>>Do you really?<< Walking over to the dining room table, he held it up.

>>What are you doing with that?<< I snapped.

>>Did you really think I was going to let you leave without saying goodbye.<<

Walking over to him, I took it from him, my heart seizing up again as I saw his face close up, that slight depression in the hollow of his neck where I liked to lay my head. >>Florian...<<

>>Please. Can we not do this again.<< He picked up his carkeys, then went over to my two large suitcases, to test their weight before looking over at Ralf. >>Are you coming?<< he asked, his voice dispassionate.

>>Do you want me to? Do you...<< He swallowed nervously. >>Do you not want some privacy?<<

>>I think my wife wants not to be alone with me, or she would not have brought you. I think she is afraid... not that we will fight. We never fight. But she is afraid that I will change her mind, and she will stay.<<

>>If I stay>. I sighed. >>If I stay, and give up on my dreams, I will turn into Evamaria, forever having her little rebellions, and you will turn into Paul, forever trying to control her, and we will hate each other.<<

>>Oh god<< said Ralf. >>To turn into your parents. What a nightmare.<<

Both of us looked at him, and the expression on his face was so earnest that both of us burst into laughter. It felt like the first time we had laughed in years, and as I looked at Florian, I remembered that once, we used to make each other laugh for hours at a time. When had that stopped? When he had come back from the States, that was when. I took one suitcase, thinking Florian would simply take it from me, as he always did with heavy things, but he didn't move. Ralf took the other.

Together we walked out into the hall, then suddenly I saw my bike, leaned up against Florian's, the basket I used to carry my punchcards or my groceries looking so incongruous with the sleek racing frame. Florian's eyes followed mine, and he frowned. >>Shit. What are we going to do about your bike? Can it be dismantled, or does it need a special crate? I did not tell the removal men about it.<<

I looked at the cycle and sighed. >>I don't know that I'll be able to cycle in New York. It's... not really a bicycle sort of town.<< But I looked at the beautiful, lightweight racing cycle, its leopard spots long replaced with go-faster stripes, and thought that she needed to be ridden. I couldn't stand to see her rust in Florian's hall. So I turned to Ralf, and asked him possibly the most fateful question of his life. >>Do you want it? You're about the same height as me, so it'll be the right size for you. That Beetle of yours isn't going to last forever, you know.<<

Ralf smiled and put his hand on the saddle, pulling the cycle away from Florian's and examining it with a curious eye, the elaborate Shimano gear system, the elegant streamlined frame, the dropped handlebars for speed. >>Ja, OK. It looks like a nice machine. I like machines. I will look after it for you.<<

I smiled, pleased that my bike, at least, was going to a good home. I wondered who was going to look after Florian, but decided I really didn't want to know. Ralf was wheeling the cycle back and forth, testing the brakes. >>We should go<< I said.

When we got down to the drive, Ralf looked at the vast Mercedes lovingly as we loaded my suitcases into the boot. >>Can I drive?<< he asked hopefully. Florian shrugged and handed him the keys without so much as a fight, and in that moment, I saw it all. Florian wouldn't let anyone drive that car. But Ralf smiled with pride and climbed into the drivers' seat. For a moment, I thought that perhaps Florian would climb into the back with me, hold me, put his arm around me and clutch me tight, but no, he climbed into the front beside Ralf, leaving me on my own in the vast passenger compartment at the back.

I knew what it was. Florian hated saying goodbye, and would avoid it at all possible costs. Once people were out of his life, that was it. He never looked back. Stupid me, I thought I had brought Ralf along to stop Florian from fighting with me. In truth, Ralf was there so that Florian would not have to say a proper goodbye. Up front, I could hear them already falling into their soft patter, finishing one another's sentences as Ralf turned the wheel, and Florian kept a lookout for oncoming traffic.

>>Put on the radio<< suggested Ralf, and Florian bent forward to fiddle with the dial. >>Do you remember in the States...<<

>>Oh yes, all the little local stations that would fade in and out...<<

>>...as we drove in and out of towns, they would come into range, and then fade out again, like distant stars...<<

>>...all that strange American propaganda. I did not think the Americans had propaganda, and yet there it was...<<

>>...I don't know, I found it oddly comforting. Especially late at night. It reminded me of being a little boy, listening to the radio, late at night under the covers. I liked the sound of voices. The reminder that no matter how remote we were, how deep into the country...<<

>>...there was always someone there. Talking at you. I found it a bit sinister, to be honest...<<

>>...well, yes, sinister and reassuring at the same time. To feel listened to, to feel watched over...<<

>>...but were they receiving or just endlessly sending. It felt like propaganda, all that English, in my head all of the time...<<

>>...but the call-in shows. Remember the call-in shows...<<

>>...is that really receiving, or is that just another way of transmitting?<<

>>Yes, heh. Everyone who called in seemed to be of the same opinion.<<

>>It was a little bit frightening. It reminded me of the Stasi, you know, the way people broadcast opinions they don't really hold, just to be heard believing the correct thing. Is that really receiving, or just showing how effectively the transmission works...<<

>>...or a little of both? Don't you find it interesting that the technology of radio, the radiowaves, the... 'radio-activity' in the air makes it possible to do both? Transmit and receive? The traffic goes both ways. Like the Autobahn, heh.<< I realised with a start how much I would miss Ralf's breathy little half-laugh. >>Oh hang on, I like this piece. Turn it up, if you please, Flori....<<

As Schumann swelled around us, I could no longer clearly hear what they said, their soft voices drowned out by the radio. I could only see them talking, their heads nodding in time with one another, Ralf gesturing so extravagantly with his hands against the steering wheel, Florian with his folded neatly in his lap. They both seemed to have forgotten already the whole reason for this drive, the reason of my leaving, as they chatted back and forth about the radio. Ralf was so animated, so excited, I could tell already that he was composing music in his head as he drove, trying to drag Florian into writing a concept album about radio transmission the way Florian had once dragged him into writing a concept album about the Autobahn.

If Florian was upset, or broken up inside about our break-up, he didn't show it. It was like he had already forgotten me. And then I realised. I left him as I found him. Ralf was always the great love of his life, not me. By fucking Ralf, I had freed him. The circle was broken, but the circuit was completed. Florian could never truly have committed to me, because he was already committed. It had never really been Jan and Florian, it had always been Ralf and Florian, Florian and Ralf.


	67. Edits

Author notes: I am considering doing some edits to this work in the coming weeks, and will use this chapter to detail what has been changed.

Quote clean-up up is all done.


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